


Put to Flight

by Unsentimentalf



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4243662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Avon and Vila have finally managed to make their way home to the Liberator but their problems are far from over.     </p><p>(CircusAU rather roughly inspired by early S3.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Ones Home

“I... haven't got a key any more. Of course." Avon cringed inwardly at the hint of a catch in his voice. Ridiculous after everything they'd weathered in the last few weeks, to react in such a pathetic way to something so unimportant. It wasn't anything to do with the key, of course. It was getting home.

If Vila noticed he didn't make it obvious. "I never had one in the first place." He walked up to the Liberator's side door, put his hand on the lock and paused. 

“Problem?” Avon was wary. He’d been wary for a long time now. He was getting tired of it.

“It's open already. The lock's been broken. Amateur." Vila let Avon push in front and swing the green door wide. 

The thump of loud recorded music greeted them. The back rooms were dark but bright light shone under the swing door to the arena. Avon could hear the creak of the rig in action. He broke into a run, swinging the door wide open in front of him as his feet hit the sawdust. For one moment he thought that everything was going to be all right after all, then he realised that hope, expectation and a mass of dark curls had fooled him. The young man glancing down at the two of them in the doorway before doing a neat reverse flip, one more sweep and a showy double somersault into the safety net was no one he'd ever seen before in his life. The stranger rolled off the net and came towards him, grinning, barechested and wearing red and black leggings that had seen considerably better days. 

Avon ignored the proffered hand. “What the hell do you think you’re doing on my rig?”

The smile didn’t falter. “Waiting for you. Nice rig, by the way, and a pleasure to meet you, Kerr Avon. I’m Del Tarrant and I’m going to be your new partner.”

Avon was rendered temporarily speechless. Beside him Vila seemed to be choking on something. He took a breath, failed to calm down. “Get out.”

“I’m unbelievably good,” Tarrant told him. “You’ll find I’m just what you need.” The music thumped away in the background, switching without quietening from Queen to Stravinsky. Avon knew it far too well; one of Blake's favourite practice tapes. 

“I don’t need anyone. Out.”

Tarrant made an attempt at looking solemn, but Avon could see his eyes still sparkling. “What are you going to do, go static and bore the punters to death? Or make a catcher out of him?” He gestured at Vila. “You and one clown don’t quite add up to a circus.”

“I am not a clown,” Vila said, offended. “And I don’t do heights. Inner ear problem, you know. Terrible shame. My aunt used to say…”

Avon gestured him into silence. “There are more of us,” he snapped at Tarrant.

“There were more of you. News travels fast, Avon. Faster than you; I’ve been waiting around here for you for weeks now.”

This –boy- had broken into Liberator and been playing around on his rig for weeks? Avon wasn’t sure whether he was more angry about that or about the all too plausible suggestion that Liberator's crew had been the subject of gossip and innuendo. “Get out!” He started forward this time, quite prepared to back up the command with force. 

Tarrant ducked back fluidly. “You need me,” he insisted again. “Your situation is absolutely hopeless.”

“If Liberator’s really such a sinking ship, why are you trying to jump aboard?” Vila sounded genuinely curious. 

Tarrant flickered his attention very briefly off Avon. “Come on, this place is incredible. This set-up,” he gestured around the tiered rows of seats, “this location, your reputation and the best rig of any independent outfit in the country. Liberator’s not the problem. You are. If you don’t find a way to reopen you’ll go broke and your marvellous building will just get stripped bare and used as a warehouse again.”

Avon advanced on him again and Tarrant lifted a defensive hand. “You need some time to think about it. That's OK. I’ll close down the rig and clear my stuff out for the moment.”

“You won’t be touching a single rope of mine again,” Avon said, darkly. “Get your clothes and get out.” He followed the man into the changing rooms and watched him dress and pack away his practice kit and various other possessions that seemed to have got scattered around into a large battered holdall. Backstage Vila had turned off the sound system.

On the way out Tarrant paused. “Your post was starting to block the door so I put it in the office. There’s some fresh milk in the fridge but you’re nearly out of coffee. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He swung lithely around the doorpost and strode off down the darkened street.

Avon glared at his oblivious back then turned back into the Liberator with little enthusiasm. Tarrant’s unwelcome presence had been a distraction from the fact that he and Vila had the place to themselves. Vila was already in the office sorting through the large heap of unopened post.

“Anything?” Avon asked.

“Overdue bills, missed bookings, unhappy punters, nearly expired licences. Nothing useful.” 

Avon didn’t bother asking how Vila could know the contents of sealed envelopes. Vila was the best at what he did. Unfortunately that didn’t include flying trapeze.

“He’s right, you know. If we don’t reopen we’ll just go broke.” Vila said.

“Obviously.” Avon said sharply. 

“So what do we do if we’re the only ones?”

“We’re just the first back. That’s all.” 

“I thought the others would be back already,” Vila said dolefully. “It took us so long to get here. I was sure they’d be waiting.” 

“I wasn’t." He'd hoped, but he hadn't been sure. "Check the email accounts when you’re done with those. I need to go over the rig.” He turned on a heel and left the office.

“I’m not your secretary!” Vila called after him. “And I’ve got things to sort out too. Fun stuff. Not emails!”

Avon took no notice. Vila would generally do what he was told. He was already back in the changing room, digging out a pair of spare leggings from his trunk. Everything he’d taken away with him was gone forever, of course. So much had gone. 

At least the feel of the ladder against his bare feet was right. Six weeks had been a far longer time earthbound than he’d known for years. He’d been itching to climb since he walked in from the street. He checked every rope, every hitch, every pulley, the routine soothing in a way nothing had been for so long. 

Rather to his surprise, Tarrant’s solo rigging had been entirely competent, if occasionally idiosyncratic. There was fresh tape on the flybar and the chalk bag was full. The man had even replaced a rope, which meant that he must have broken into the storeroom, as well as suggesting that he’d put a fair number of hours in on the apparatus. Avon wondered briefly how much extra the utility bills would be to keep the arena lit and heated for weeks. They should definitely consider charging their uninvited guest for that and the replacement locks. And the coffee.

By the time he finished up with the rig he could hear Vila snoring in the rec room. It was late. Avon was tempted to wake the man and tell him to go home but despite knowing the man for years he had no idea what his domestic set up was. It might not be entirely simple for Vila to just walk back into his home after six weeks of silence. Avon himself had a flat ten minutes walk away and no complications. Nothing was stopping him from going home except the uncomfortable sense that in Blake’s absence Liberator was his responsibility. He dipped into the office to turn off the computer, paused with the mouse over shut down and instead typed Del Tarrant into a search box. 

Twenty minutes later he knew as much about Tarrant as seemed to be publicly available. A talented junior gymnast, Tarrant had won one of the coveted places in the Circus Federation Academy specialising in trapeze. He’d sailed through training picking up some fairly prestigious awards and prizes along the way but at the point of graduation, when with his record he might be expected to join a large circus as a junior flyer, he’d simply disappeared from the records. That was five years ago. Avon hadn’t been able to find a trace of the name online since. 

Curious. It explained why he’d never seen the man perform, anyway. It didn’t matter. Tarrant was unimportant, not related to Avon’s real problems. He closed down the computer and went into the rec room. At least Vila had stopped snoring. Avon took a blanket from the pile behind the sofa, settled on the other couch and closed his eyes. Maybe one or all of the others would get back tomorrow. Maybe. It was some time before he finally managed to sleep.


	2. Catcher

“Can’t we just wait until Jenna gets back?” Vila waved a helpless hand at the desk. “I don’t know anything about this stuff.”

“Then you’ll have to learn. You were the one saying we needed to reopen,” Avon pointed out. 

“Yes, reopen. As in performing. You remember performing? Doing amazing things so people pay us? This is just paperwork.”

“We can’t perform unless Liberator has light, heat, a valid licence, advertising, ticket sales…” Avon grimaced. “A dozen other things, no doubt. I don’t know anything much about it either but if we don’t want to go bankrupt we’ll just have to learn. Go through the bills and pay anyone who could close us down in the next three weeks, for a start.”

Vila sat down, reluctantly. “And the refunds?”

“We certainly can’t afford to make the refunds until we’ve got some income. Tell them we’re processing them and all valid claims will be paid in full, and in the meantime they’ll receive a free ticket to next Sunday’s performance shortly. You’d better make a list to send the tickets to.”

Vila looked up. “We’re opening next Sunday?”

“No, we’re opening next Saturday, but we can sell out the first performance to the curious and we need the money. There are a lot of people out there at the moment who will pay just to come and stare. Once.”

Two hours later Avon was ready to kill the next person who asked him where Blake was or what had really happened with his bare hands, but he had at least spoken to everyone that they’d need if the shows were to go ahead. Liberator would make a statement about recent events at the appropriate time, he told them, and moved the subject firmly back to ticket sales, or food concessions, or advertising. As far as he was concerned the appropriate time would be just after hell froze over. 

News travelled fast. Every time he put the phone down it was ringing with people who’d heard that they were back and wanted to speak to Blake, or Jenna, or, as a last resort and reluctantly, him. After the first three calls Vila set it up to go straight to voicemail but Avon knew it was a temporary reprieve; people would start turning up at the stage door any time now.

The first person to turn up was Tarrant, still lugging the holdall around. 

"Come in," Avon told him, and led the way to the office. "Here." The press release was pushed into Tarrant's hands. "Find something pretty to wear and go stand at the door. Tell anyone who comes that we're opening on Saturday, nothing else. Don't let anyone inside." 

"Right," Tarrant said, and disappeared towards the changing room. 

"You're not letting him join?" Vila sounded incredulous. 

"Right now I'm finding a use for him. He's decorative but ignorant; let them pester him with questions he can't answer."

"And later?" 

Avon shook his head. "You don't get a place in Liberator on a wide grin and too much arrogance. He won't be as good as he says he is; his sort never are." 

"What if the others don't get back by the time we reopen?"

"I'll worry about that on Saturday. Right now we still have a performance to arrange."

The afternoon was both frantically busy and dull. Every so often Avon and Vila could hear a smattering of applause from the doorway, getting progressively louder. Eventually Avon broke off from his various phone calls to take a look. 

Tarrant, in sparkling green, was using the door frame for an assortment of flips and balances for the amusement of a crowd of forty or so in the street. As Avon watched he hung upside down by his toes and recited the press release verbatim, bracing himself against the sides to flip neatly onto his feet. He bowed to his audience and pulled the door closed. 

"Any chance of a cold drink?" he asked. 

"Enjoying yourself?"

"I always have fun improvising. Don't you?"

Avon didn't. He preferred performances to be meticulously planned, and said so. 

Tarrant headed past him for the fridge and a cold can of Coke. "We ought to get on with rehearsing then. Give me five minutes and I'll be ready." 

"No." Avon said, coldly. "You're not in."

Tarrant took a swig from the can, looked at Avon. "Still like that is it? Didn't you see me...? Never mind. Even if your Roj Blake and the rest of them roll up on Saturday all ready for your grand reopening it's going to be a bit of an anticlimax when you miss the bar through lack of practice." 

Avon had been trying not to fret about that. He’d been wondering if there was anyone he could call on for a practice session but he hated owing favours particularly at a time like this. Tarrant wasn’t Liberator but he wasn’t exactly the competition either, and he was here.

“If,” he told Tarrant, “you can convince me you’re considerably better than just competent, I might consider a practice session. That’s all. I warn you, though, I have very high standards. If you don’t meet them, the next time you want to get in here you’ll have to queue for a ticket.” 

“I know all about your standards,” Tarrant said. “That’s why I’m here. Shall I set up the net while you change?”

“No. You can wait.” 

It was another half an hour before Avon had finished deputising his remaining administration jobs to an increasingly sulky Vila and allowed Tarrant to assist in the set up. He gestured up the ladder. “After you”

Tarrant swung up to the board and Avon came to stand next to him, hooking the flybar close. “It’s all yours.”

“Just solo?” Tarrant sounded a little disappointed. 

“Until I’m sure you know what you’re doing I’m not trusting myself to your hands. Impress me first.”

Tarrant took off, took a couple of force-outs to get up speed then started. Even Avon’s critical eye had to concede after a few minutes that the man had no shortage of power or technique.

He watched for a little while longer, curious. There was a lot of Academy still in Tarrant’s style for a man five years out but it was something else that Avon found odd. Flyers tended to have a solo routine with various flourishes but Tarrant seemed to be doing tricks moreorless as they occurred to him. Every so often there was something that looked like part of a sequence but it would always break off abruptly. Either the man had no sense of the flow of a performance at all or something else was going on. 

Tarrant mounted the board again and rested for a moment beside Avon, who could smell the familiar bitter odour of sweat. He reached out to take the flybar away.

“Where did you work last?”

Tarrant grinned. “I’ve done nothing you’d call working. I’ve travelled abroad a lot in the last few years.”

“With whom?” Avon pushed. 

“Just friends.” Tarrant dusted his hands and reached out for the bar. “Don’t bother expecting my CV to be a riveting read; it’s got more white space than the Antarctic.”

“I’m not particularly interested in your CV since there’s no job going.” He should have guessed from that accent; Tarrant had got bored slumming around playing with his chums on Daddy’s trust fund, thought he could walk into any circus he wanted on the basis of five year old school scores. “Have you done much catching during your extensive professional hiatus?” That was all Avon needed to know right now. 

“Plenty, as it happens.” 

“For your friends.”

“That’s right.”

It didn’t sound particularly promising, but Tarrant had certainly looked competent so far. If he screwed up Avon was risking little more than a tumble into the net. “Go on then.” 

Tarrant nodded, did a back flip into the net and started up to the catcher’s board. Avon ignored him for a few minutes in favour of getting his own balance and focus as he swung and twisted. It felt like longer than six weeks since he’d been out on the bar; his muscles were feeling it already. He ignored the discomfort and eventually he was satisfied about his performance.

Avon signalled to the catcher’s bar; something straightforward to start off with. For a moment he couldn’t remember how long it had been since there had been anyone but Blake waiting to catch him. Years, it must be. It felt uncomfortably like betrayal. 

He put a little more power into the swing. If Blake came back…when Blake came back... Liberator needed to be there for him, working and solvent. Everything Avon was doing was to keep Liberator alive long enough for its people to return. Avon signalled, flew across the empty space, and his hands curled tight around the unfamiliar wrists as the man caught his own simultaneously. 

They swung together, thirty feet in the air. Blake had called every catch a very minor miracle, repeated a dozen times a night. Avon had never had much truck with miracles and he didn’t entirely trust Tarrant not to get bored and drop him. He signalled a couple of shifts until he was swinging from the catcher’s ankles then dropped himself into the net.

The bar slowed above him as Tarrant looked down. “Problem?” came the cheerful voice.

Avon considered possible replies, discarded them all. He had to practice. Tarrant was apparently good enough to provide a halfway decent workout. The fact that he didn’t want it to be this arrogant and lazy young man on the catcher’s bar was emotional and irrelevant. Blake wasn’t here. Tarrant was. He made his way across the net to the ladder and started up again. 

Half an hour later he was twisting in midair when there came a loud and urgent shout from below them. Rather to his surprise, Tarrant completed the catch. Avon signalled a drop and hit the net. “Stupid idiot,” he started at Vila, furious. “You ought to know better than to yell at me!” 

“Shut up and listen,” Vila said. “It’s Cally! She just left a message on voicemail!”

Avon came off the net. “What did she say?”

“Just that she’s safe. She said it was an open line. I think she’s coming home.”

“What about the others? Did she say anything about them?”

Vila shook his head. “I couldn’t get her number off the system either.”

Cally. Avon didn’t feel much in the way of relief, not yet. She was still out there somewhere, and her idea of safe wasn’t necessarily accurate. “Take the phone off voicemail. If she calls again I need to speak to her.” He glanced up at Tarrant’s curious face. “We’re done here for now.”


	3. Executive Decisions

Cally came home two days later.

Avon was up on the rig with Tarrant when she walked into the arena which had the advantage of giving him a few moments to compose himself. By the time he reached the floor he was able to nod at her with a reasonable semblance of coolness.

“You took your time. I presume Vila told you we open on Saturday. Who’s this?”

“Dayna Mellanby,” the tall young woman said. She had the physique of an acrobat and was looking at the rig with every appearance of comprehension.

“Mellanby? As in Hal Mellanby?”

She nodded. “My father.”

Avon snorted. “Well, you can tell your father from me…”

“He’s dead.” Cally interrupted forcefully. “Avon, don’t be an ass. Dayna’s come to join Liberator.”

“Another one!” Tarrant said from behind his shoulder. “Wonderful! We’ll have a three ring circus by Saturday at this rate. I’m Del Tarrant, Avon’s catcher, and I’m delighted to meet you two ladies.”

Avon’s pleasure at Cally’s reappearance was rapidly wearing off. He felt as if he was being hustled and he didn’t like it. “Nobody is joining Liberator without Blake’s sayso, or mine in his absence, and I say nobody is joining. Cally, a word in private please.”

“You two go and chat. I’ll show Dayna around,” Tarrant said, unquenched. 

Cally was glaring at Avon. “You’re right. We definitely need a word. Office?”

Avon led the way. Vila took a quick look at their faces and announced that he was off out to buy more milk. 

Cally settled in Jenna’s chair. “That was unnecessarily harsh, Avon. She’s just lost her father and you know it wouldn’t have been safe for her to stay there.”

“How is that our problem?” Avon demanded, though he suspected that he knew the answer.

“Blake’s at least partly responsible for all this. For Hal Mellanby’s death, and the rest of it. She’s good, Avon, I’m sure of it. Her father taught her well. She won’t be a liability to Liberator.” She frowned at him. “I don’t know as much about that Tarrant boy. Where did you pick him up?”

“Nobody picked him up,” Avon said. “He broke in here to play on my rig while we were away and now he’s an annoying hanger-on but a useful practice partner. That’s all. He’s certainly not performing with us.”

“Is he any good?” Cally asked.

Avon scowled. “Yes, as it turns out. Much better than a bone idle rich kid has any right to be. He can’t join, though. I don’t like him at all.”

Cally laughed at that. “Come on, you’ve never liked any of us, Blake included, but you had to put up with us or turn solo. You’re not going to find a soulmate out there, Avon. You might as well settle for someone who can perform. Give them both a chance.”

“We don’t need them. When Blake gets back we’ll be fine.” He looked at Cally’s face and his heart sank. “What do you know?”

“Nothing. Nothing certain. But I don’t think Hal Mellanby was the only who didn’t get away. He could be in prison, Avon. He could be dead. All we know is that he isn’t here and no-one’s heard from him or Jenna. For now Liberator’s you, me and Vila, and you know that isn’t enough.”

Avon knew. Any decent flying trapeze display needed as a minimum flyer, catcher and someone working the board. Cally, tumbler and juggler by training, was still novice at all of those and Vila, insistently earthbound, was no use to Avon at all. “What does she do?”

“Everything. Trapeze, static, tumbling, juggling. She’ll fit in with the whole act.” Cally shrugged, sat back. “That’s my opinion, anyway. In the end it’s your decision, Avon. Vila and I can always rework our acts for the three of us but I don’t know what else you can do.”

“A single flyer is at a singular disadvantage,” Avon agreed. “I don’t like it at all, Cally. Our happy go lucky Del Tarrant makes me distinctly uncomfortable. He doesn’t ask questions and he doesn’t answer them. The whole world wants to know what happened with Blake but not him.” He sighed. “But you’re right, I don’t have a choice while Jenna and Blake are missing. Tell your Dayna I’ll give her a try out this afternoon. She’ll have to be good enough.”

“I think she will be. Thank you, Avon.”

“Don’t thank me. If I had any other options I wouldn’t be doing it.” 

 

The tryout ended up being postponed. Two uniformed police officers turned up at the stage door, asking for Blake. Avon went out to meet them.

“He’s not here.” 

The man flanked by the officers nodded. “And you are?”

There was nothing to be gained by prevaricating. This was the security service and it wasn’t going to just go away. “Kerr Avon. I’m in charge here in Blake’s absence.”

The man nodded his familiarity with the name. “Are Vila Restal, Jenna Stannis and the performer known as Cally here?”

“Jenna’s also absent. I suggest that you start off by asking me whatever questions you have.” Avon glanced up the street. There were a couple of people watching them. There always were, these days. He didn’t know where they came from or who they answered to. “Do you want to come in?”

“I think it would be best if you accompanied me back to my office.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not at all. You are assisting us with background information to recent foreign events.”

Avon briefly wondered if he ought to insist on his solicitor but he suspected the woman would be well out of her depth with this. “Wait a moment. I’ll let my people know I’m leaving.” 

He nearly tripped over Vila as he came round the office door.

“What do they want?” Vila said nervously.

“What everyone else wants, I imagine. To know what Blake did and why. I’m going with them now. Listen, Vila, and make sure you tell Cally. We are not protecting Blake over this. He can take responsibility for his own actions. If he was here he’d doubtless insist on it. We should stay out of trouble as long as you don’t try to get creative with any officials. Understand? No lies.”

“But when I’m nervous I always get creative,” Vila sounded very worried. “And questions always make me nervous.”

Vila was hardly likely to take well to interrogation given his history. It couldn’t be helped. Avon shook his head and walked back to the stage door. “Remember to tell Cally,” he called back. “And if you can’t say the right thing, keep quiet!”

 

“Where did you first meet Roj Blake?”

Avon sighed. “There is a long and admittedly fairly tedious history of Liberator on the website. Must I assume that you haven’t read it?”

“I have,” the man who had finally introduced himself as Abel told him. “I didn’t find it tedious at all. So you met in prison.”

“Yes. Blake was a circus skills trainer who was almost certainly not going to get his old job back on release. The rest of us had either existing skills or natural talent and nothing better to do. Blake somehow talked various people into financial and practical support and Liberator was launched around six months after I was released, three years ago.”

Abel nodded. “Were you aware of Blake’s political opinions?”

“Anyone who spent more than ten minutes with Blake was aware of his political opinions. He didn’t exactly keep them quiet.” 

“Could you tell me what they were?”

Avon snorted. “Blake always had endless causes that Liberator would be supporting - we must have done more benefit gigs than profitable ones. He was particularly exercised about corrupt judicial systems, for, I suppose, obvious reasons. We did a performance for a campaign about political prisoners earlier this year.”

“Did you agree with his opinions?”

Careful now. “I’m a trapeze artist,” Avon said. “Liberator’s a circus, not a political organisation.”

“You could have left if you didn’t like the way it was run. I understand that your professional skills are highly thought of.”

Avon laughed a little bitterly at that. “Yes, they are. And my conviction is still unspent. When you’ve got a criminal record you don’t walk away from a good job over trivia like the boss’s pet causes.” Like everything he’d told his interrogator it was true but not necessarily relevant.

“Were you surprised at the Kamir booking, given Blake’s political stance?” 

“I was pretty sure he was up to something.” Avon said honestly. The small country had a military-backed government and an appalling record on human rights. No-one from democratic countries toured there any more.

“You asked him about it, I presume?” Abel said.

‘Ask’ wasn’t quite correct. Avon had been vehement. “Whatever stunt you’re planning will have no effect other than to get us into trouble. You don’t mess around with these people, Blake!”

“You don’t have to come with me.” Blake had told him. 

“That’s no kind of answer. What are you planning?”

But Blake had just shaken his head. “None of you have to come.”

“But you went anyway,” the security officer said.

Avon shrugged. “Liberator was booked for a Presidential performance. That needed all of us. I was curious to see what the place was like.”

“And what Blake would do?”

“A little, perhaps. I guessed that he’d stand up and make an impassioned speech telling the President how dreadful he was and we’d get hustled out by armed bodyguards and shoved on the next plane home without our fee.” It had been a logical assumption to make. It had also been completely wrong. 

He stretched out his legs. “Is there any chance of a glass of water?”

They brought him a surprisingly decent coffee while Abel took a long phone call in the corridor, frowning at him through the glass. Eventually he came in again to speak to Avon. “Would you be willing to come back to complete this interview tomorrow?”

“No,” Avon told him. “The day after tomorrow we open to the public. I have two new people to incorporate into the act. I won’t have any time to talk to you in the next few days and you won’t get me here unless you find a way of legally compelling me to do so. On Monday, however, I can be at your disposal voluntarily.”

Abel frowned. “I understand that you have had no contact at all with Roj Blake since leaving Kamir?”

Interesting that he should know that. It confirmed Avon’s suspicions about the phone and computer. “None whatsoever. Nor, as I understand it, has anyone else at Liberator.”

“If he contacts you we would like to know immediately. “ He was passed a piece of card with a telephone number and nothing else on it. “Otherwise Monday is acceptable. A car will pick you up from your place of work at ten am. Thank you.”

Avon nodded. “I would appreciate one piece of information in return. There are people watching Liberator. Are they all yours?”

The security operative paused for a moment then shook his head reluctantly. “You would probably do best not to spread that information around, however. I can assure you that we are monitoring the situation and assess no physical risk to you or your people.”

“How reassuring,” Avon said coolly. “Do please tell me if that assessment changes.”

“Of course.” They shook hands, to Avon’s inward amusement, and he was ushered out and provided with a taxi. He reflected on the interview as he was driven back to Liberator. He’d been half expecting arrest, despite his reassurance to Vila, but he supposed it would be difficult to establish what laws in this country they’d broken and there certainly weren’t any relevant extradition treaties in place. Blake wouldn’t be awarded any medals but Avon had assumed that the government wouldn’t have lost any sleep over it either. The kid gloves handling he’d just received rather confirmed that.

Avon eventually resolved to put the whole subject out of his mind. He had an entire performance to revamp in forty eight hours with two new performers, one of whose skills he could only guess at. Whether Blake and Jenna were alive or dead, free or imprisoned, they would have to wait. Keeping Liberator going was his first priority right now.


	4. Running the Show

The newcomers seemed to be enjoying Avon’s rig when he got back. There was certainly a lot of showing off and much consequential tumbling into the net. Avon watched them from back stage for a few minutes; Tarrant in the catch trap, Dayna in one of Jenna’s practice outfits out on the bar, Cally on the board. This was where Blake’s absence- Blake’s rash stupidity- had left him, responsible for everyone and everything else, not just his own performance. How did Blake stand it?

He stepped forward, called them down, sent Cally off to work with Vila.

“Now,” he told the other two, scowling their giggles away. “I don’t know what sort of amateurish foolery you’ve been used to but on Saturday you have a paying audience and Liberator has its reputation at stake. I want to see only what you can do every time. I’m not interested in the tricks you might pull off three times out of four. There’s no scope to fail when we perform here.”

“Don’t worry,” Tarrant told him. “We’ll be perfect on Saturday. Come on, Dayna. We’d better show the boss here our incredibly professional side.”

Avon was relieved to find that Dayna really was a performer. She had a solo swing act that would do fine with no adjustments needed and she was a good enough flyer when she wasn’t trying too hard to impress. There were a few simple but flashy catch-and-returns that she and Tarrant should manage not to screw up between them. Just as importantly, she could work the board, catching the empty flybar and sending it back out precisely timed for Avon to cross back. That gave him scope for more complex work on the catcher’s bar, which delighted Tarrant at least.

They spent all evening working on a routine. It wasn’t particularly long or sophisticated but given the practice time they didn’t have Avon worried that it was still too ambitious. The unquenchable high spirits of the other two were irritating him; they might not have anything to lose but he did. Eventually his annoyance made him lose focus, he missed his grasp and got pulled unceremoniously out of the air by Tarrant.

“You’re getting tired. We should call it a day,” Tarrant called down to him as he swung by one wrist from the catcher’s grasp.

Avon did not appreciate being told his business but when your catcher said there was a problem you didn’t just ignore it. “Drop,” he snapped and fell rather gracelessly into the net. Tarrant followed as soon as he was clear and Dayna swung out and did a neat forward roll to join them.

“That will have to do.” Now he’d stopped he really did feel tired. It must be well past eleven. Dayna had been travelling half the day as well but she still looked bright eyed; the resilience of youth, Avon supposed.

They changed and split up; Cally was taking Dayna to stay with her. Vila had already left; he had finally started going home at night, much to Avon’s relief. Those snores… Avon was still sleeping in Liberator, though he’d been home to pick up clean clothes. It wasn’t sensible, he knew that, but he kept wondering what might happen if Blake came back in the middle of the night and there was no-one there.

“OK if I sleep here?” Tarrant asked.

“No,” Avon said automatically. “Where have you been sleeping?”

“Since you kicked me out of Liberator? Here and there.”

“Don’t tell me you’re broke,” Avon said scornfully. “Can’t you ask Daddy for a sub?”

“Cut off without a penny years ago,” Tarrant said cheerfully. “Black sheep of the family, apparently. I’m not completely skint though, I just don’t like hotels very much. The street’s more interesting. Here’s better still. By the way, what’s my new salary?”

“Liberator’s a profit sharing co-operative which means you get nothing at all until we turn a profit. We’re likely to go bankrupt in the next four weeks. Still want to join?”

“Where else am I going to have this much fun?” Tarrant wandered into the rec room. “Which sofa do you want?”

Avon contemplated the amount of effort that it was going to take to evict Tarrant and decided that it was very late and he really didn’t have the energy. “That one. And if you snore you’re out on your ear.”

Tarrant didn’t snore. Avon even managed to successfully send him out for breakfast and they sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating bacon rolls.

“One and a half days of rehearsal,” Avon said, mostly to himself. “It’s going to be a disaster,”

“It will be great. You just need to relax,” Tarrant said. “Have some fun on the rig. Play around.”

“Fun?” Avon shook his head. “I’m a professional. This is work.”

“You do enjoy it though?”

Avon had never wanted to do anything but fly since the first time Blake had sent him out on the bar. He had missed it like air or water in the weeks they’d been on the run. He and Blake- when it had gone well it had felt like a perfect machine. Enjoy it? He had absolutely no idea whether he did or not.

“Have you ever thought about doing something up there that you definitely will enjoy?” Tarrant asked.

“Like what?”

Tarrant grinned. “Well, have you ever done it out on a bar?”

“Done what?” Avon asked, momentarily baffled. Then his brain caught up and he nearly choked on the coffee. “No! Of course not. You couldn’t…”

“Of course you can.” Tarrant sat back a little, amused. “It’s only gymnastics after all. You just need to get yourselves in the right position. One of the right positions. There are a surprisingly large number of options that work.” He finished his roll, tossed the crumpled paper into the bin. “Want me to show you?”

“If that’s a proposition the answer is obviously no. And don’t ever even think of asking again or you will be out of Liberator for good,” Avon was sharp.

Tarrant shrugged. “No need to get aggressive about it. Most people consider a simple ‘no thank you’ adequate.”

“Very well. No thank you.” Avon said coldly. “Now don’t mention it again.”

“Why would I?”

Fortunately at that point the others turned up which saved Avon from having any more of Tarrant’s idea of conversation inflicted on him.

The newly formed circus worked hard all morning. Even Vila was putting in genuine hours rather than his usual ten minutes here and there. Avon couldn’t fault any of them for commitment, which made his own distraction even more annoying.

Why had Tarrant had to say something so …well, crass? Of course you could have sex on a trapeze, Avon imagined, but what sort of person would? What sort of person would want to with him? Assuming of course that it had been a serious offer and not just Tarrant trying to get a rise out of him; Avon wasn’t even sure how he was meant to tell the difference. Not that it mattered. He would have put the whole thing out of his mind easily enough, no doubt, if he hadn’t been spending much of the day in the extremely close proximity to his catcher that trapeze naturally required.

They touched each other everywhere, of course, as they slid over each other to change position in a dozen different ways. Avon had come to know the feel of every inch of Blake. He could report (not that he ever would) the size and shape of the man’s genitals, the pattern of hair on his stomach, the places where sweat built up and the ones that stayed dry, the way every muscle moved and every part’s particular scent. Now it was Tarrant up against him, a younger, harder body, a different mix of sweat and scent and a man who’d made a suggestion that Blake certainly never would have done.

As far as Avon could tell (certain things he could tell, of course, whether he wanted to or not) Tarrant’s concentration was entirely back on work, which was where Avon’s ought to be. Not wondering, as they swung around each other, precisely which of these positions Tarrant might have been considering modifying to obtain the desired result. The stupid thing was nagging at him when he had serious matters to worry about and he was somewhat relieved to announce the end of the morning session and to bundle everyone into a large taxi to the costume shop.

His relief didn’t last long. Not one of them was prepared to go along with his eminently practical and low cost approach to costuming for the following night.

“I might as well be performing naked,” Dayna complained.

“It’s not exactly show biz, is it?” Vila had always favoured sequins and gold trim. “Are we trying to depress our audience?”

“Vila’s right. It’s a circus, not a funeral, Avon,” Cally had said. “I don’t think it will work.”

“I know it won’t work,” Tarrant said. “You’ve got completely the wrong lighting set for black. Your performers will get lost in shadows instead of standing out.”

“I suppose they taught you that at the Academy,” Avon snapped at him. He’d always sneered at Blake’s apparent obsession with costuming. He couldn’t quite believe he was having an argument about it now. “Fine. Choose what you like between you. But it has to all match- we aren’t performing in motley-and we’re close to broke so keep it reasonable. I'm going next door for a coffee. Call me back when I need to try something on."

He had a coffee, and then another one, finding a certain amount of relief in the solitude and the time away from Liberator. The circus had started to feel like a constant weight hanging around his neck. Maybe it would have been better just to walk away, join another troupe where someone else did all the management and all he would need to worry about was trapeze. 

If he'd somehow been able to know for certain that Blake was gone he would never have taken on Liberator, Del Tarrant, Dayna Mellanby or any other part of this headache. He wasn't Roj Blake; he couldn't keep a bunch of ex-cons and general troublemakers together through sheer force of personality. The thought of being the one who had to run Liberator like this for the foreseeable future filled him with leaden despair. 

He had just reached that point when Tarrant stuck his head around the cafe door. "Come on! We're just waiting for you now." 

They'd made a good choice, eyecatching silver and purple and good materials but not extravagant. Waistcoats for the men, leotards for the women and plain silver leggings for all of them. They'd persuaded the seamstress to promise a skirt and jacket for Cally and wide trousers for Vila in the same materials by the next day. Everyone except Avon was pleased with themselves, chattering noisily in the taxi going back. Avon was quiet, thinking.

When they got back he noticed how they stood around still chatting to each other, waiting for him to organise them.. It made him feel rather nauseous. He wasn't going to try to be Blake. 

"How did you decide on the costume between you? " he asked Cally. 

She shrugged. "It wasn't hard. We all knew what sort of thing was needed."

"Really? Because you all know what's needed to produce a performance tomorrow. So why are you waiting for me to tell you what to do?" 

"You seem to like telling us what to do, " Tarrant said . 

" Well I don't. I'm the senior on trapeze unless Tarrant wants to come up with an explanation of what he's been doing for the last few years so that routine's my responsibility but there is no reason whatsoever why I should be doing all the administration or getting involved at all in Cally and Vila's acts. You didn't need me to tell you that we needed costume but none of you did anything about it. I'm a trapeze artist, not a circus manager and I'm not carrying you lot any further. This changes now."

There was some arguing but Avon was adamant and eventually they came to an arrangement that redistributed Liberator's responsibilities rather more equitably among its members. Avon had every intention of bullying through any decisions that he felt were important enough but he didn't feel any need to say so right now. Getting the endless boring and soul destroying management stuff out of his lap was at the moment what was important. 

By the time they got back to rehearsal Avon was feeling a great deal less unhappy and a great deal more focussed. He barely remembered the suggestion that had bothered him so much in the morning. By the evening he was even feeling relaxed enough to leave Tarrant in sole possession of both Liberator's sofas and sleep in his own bed at last.


	5. Terms and Conditions

The music swirled louder around the arena, its tone different as always with five hundred soft bodied spectators in the seats. Avon was no longer thinking about the audience, how the other acts had gone or anything else. He swung, forced out, swept, swung out again, twisted on the fly bar and let go, curled tight for a moment as he spun then stretched out. Hands caught his ankles and he could hear the crowd roar as he rode the momentum to come all the way up above Tarrant and seize the ropes holding the catcher’s bar. As Tarrant released him he slid down and came to rest standing on the bar, his catcher below him. Tarrant swung himself upwards and Avon caught his hands, then they were both standing on the bar looking downwards. 

There was the crowd, of course, yelling approval for all that they were ignorant of how hard that had actually been. There was something else, barely visible, snaking out of the unlit crowd and in front of the spotlight that Vila was holding on them. For a moment Avon thought it might be left over from Cally’s fire dancing, but her torches always burned clean. This smoke was coiling up between the wooden stairs and the people sitting around there were already moving, their voices rising in unease.

Damn. He’d never thought to do a fire drill along with all the endless things they’d practiced over the last few days. Avon looked down at Vila, sliced a hand to cut the music and mouthed “Hiatus,” down at him. Vila looked momentarily horrified, then picked up the mike.

“Ladies and gentlemen. There has been a minor equipment malfunction and we need to clear the arena. Could we ask you to leave in an orderly fashion by the doors to your left or right. No rush, people. No need to panic.”

The audience were definitely starting to panic now as they pushed towards the doors, the smoke ever more evident. Some of them were running across the arena itself to the back stage doors, ducking under the safety net, rendering it useless. Avon swung back to the board and started to slide down the ropes. He could feel the tugs on them as Tarrant followed, closer above him than was entirely safe. Dayna was scrambling down the ladder from the main board. 

Cally and Vila were trying to calm the shoving crowds enough to keep them moving safely through the exits; Avon estimated that about half the audience had got out already. He pulled a few adults with children away from the dangerous press, sent them across to the stage door. The fire was crackling now, orange showing under the empty seating. Had someone called the fire brigade? He ran into the office, picked up the phone. Yes, they were on their way. Tarrant and Dayna had grabbed fire extinguishers but they didn’t seem to be achieving anything. 

The last few people were scrambling through the right hand door. There was someone on the ground; Cally had them, was carrying them out. On the left there were about twenty or so people who didn’t seem to be moving. The place was filling with choking black smoke. Avon charged into the small crowd, started pulling people backwards. The first few he’d displaced suddenly disappeared- he glanced round to see Tarrant forcibly shepherding them across the stage to the back door. There were two people unconscious or nearly so in the doorway. Avon dragged one to the side, pushed everyone else past and out into the fresh air. 

He had to go back. There had still been people in there. The black smoke billowed through the door and he knew he physically couldn’t. Sirens screamed as the engines arrived. Officers with breathing equipment shoved past him and disappeared. 

It took them no more than half an hour to put out the blaze. For Avon it felt like forever. He talked to the fire brigade. He talked to the police. He went to the local hospital and talked to the people treating Tarrant and Cally for smoke inhalation (minor, they said. They’d be released in a few hours.) He refused to talk to the local papers. Thankfully, no-one was dead. There were three crush related injuries and a couple of people with aggravated pre-existing breathing problems, plus a handful of other smoke inhalation cases and a couple of major panic attacks.

Liberator’s seating was damaged beyond repair. The fire hadn’t reached anywhere else; the rest of the damage was smoke and the effects of the high pressure water hoses. 

Avon knew exactly when the tests must have come back showing traces of accelerant because the police stopped accusing him of negligence (rubbish buildup under the seating, inadequate fire precautions) and started to accuse him of arson. He did not feel particularly inclined to tolerate this line of questioning. 

Yes, Liberator was in financial difficulties. Yes, its leader and a founder member were missing, possibly dead. Yes he had put together this performance at short notice. Yes, he had a criminal record for fraud. No, he had not set the fire for the insurance money. It was quite simple to prove this; there was no insurance money. Public liability insurance, yes; it was a legal requirement and they had it. The building was rented, but the fittings- no. Liberator was always on a tight budget and Blake had decided that they couldn’t afford it. 

What about his colleagues? Had they known about the insurance situation? Avon was tempted to say yes, but all they needed to do to find out was to ask them and he didn’t want to get caught out in a lie. He imagined Cally and Vila also would know but he wasn’t sure.

Was there anyone else with a grudge against Liberator or any of its members? Avon laughed out loud at that one. What did they think? Given recent events…

Was Avon really suggesting that the fire might have been set by agents of a foreign government? Yes, he was. He wasn’t just suggesting it, he was telling them that was what had happened. He suggested that they go away and find them. 

When they finally let him go he dug out the card he’d been given and rang the number. 

“Yes?”

“I need to speak to Abel.”

There was a pause, then Abel’s voice. “Kerr Avon. My commiserations on last night’s events.”

“Yes, about that. Your harmless foreign agents tried to burn down my building with five hundred people inside. One of them was me. What are you intending to do about it?”

A sigh. “I’m afraid that at the moment there is very little that I can do about it. If the men concerned reappear, they will be apprehended. I can arrange for Liberator to have increased security.”

“I think that comes under the category of stable door locking with the horse already half a mile away. Get the police off our backs, at least. Being arrested for arson is the last thing any of us need right now.”

“I will do what I can.” The call terminated. When Avon tried to call again no-one answered.

They met in the beer garden of the local pub. Nobody wanted to spend more time than they had to in Liberator; there was an inch of standing water in the back rooms and sodden sawdust trampled everywhere. You would need wellington boots to wade through the arena itself and the fire brigade had cordoned if off anyway in case the remaining seating collapsed. It was a glorious sunny day.

“There’s nothing in writing to tie either of you to Liberator’s debts,” Avon told Dayna and Tarrant. “You can walk away.”

“We joined,” Dayna said. “We’re staying.”

“You clearly don’t understand. There is no circus any more. There will be no more performances. All that remains is to pay off the creditors as far as we can then go through bankruptcy proceedings. It will be unpleasant and none of us want to be involved in that. You two don’t have to be. Go away.”

“How much would we need to keep going?” Tarrant asked.

Avon shrugged. “Far too much.”

“How much?” Tarrant insisted.

Avon had done the sums even though there was barely any point. “Twenty thousand for repairs, five to keep everything going until we can perform again, ten thousand to get us out of the financial mess we were already in before last night. We have just under two thousand in the bank account.”

Vila winced. “Well, that’s that then.”

“Is that all? Why not just borrow it?” Tarrant said. His voice was still noticeably hoarse.

“Let me see,” Avon said, sarcastically. “Vila, how many convictions for theft have you got?”

“Six, I think.”

“Six. Whereas I served three years of a six year sentence for fraud. Cally’s still on the run from her family and has never had so much as a bank account to her name. Dayna’s been in the country less than a week, probably illegally at that. No-one’s going to lend any of us money. So unless you know anyone who wants to lend you thirty five thousand pounds on the security of a burnt out circus, borrowing isn’t really an option.” 

“I was thinking that I could lend it to you, actually,” Tarrant said.

“Do you have thirty five thousand pounds?” Cally asked.

“Make it fifty. You might as well get some capital to make improvements while the work is being done. And yes, I have it.”

“I thought you said your father cut you off,” Avon was suspicious.

“He did. This is my money. I earned it.”

“Doing what?”

“Does it matter?” Vila said. “We need money, Tarrant has it. Where do we sign?”

“Doing what?” Avon repeated to Tarrant.

“I’m not going to tell you,” Tarrant said. “But it’s earned, not stolen or swindled and it legitimately belongs to me. Nobody is going to come along and reclaim it, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

“Of course I’m worried about that, and half a dozen other things,” Avon said. “You’d do far better just telling me the truth.”

“I don’t think I would,” Tarrant was smiling. Avon wondered if he was just being mysterious for the sake of it. Still, where could the money have come from? No trapeze artist outside the top circuses could conceivably make enough money to save ten grand a year and Avon knew all those performers by sight at least. That meant that Tarrant must have made it outside the circus, but doing what? And how could it have left him time and opportunity to keep up the performers’ standard he undoubtedly had?

“I don’t like mysteries,” he told Tarrant. “The various founder members of Liberator had been convicted of a variety of unsavoury activities. You’ll find most of them listed on the website. Blake had no time for trying to hide where we’d come from, and I didn’t agree with him on many things but I have to admit that one saved a great deal of time and effort. It’s unlikely that we of all people will be scandalised for long by the revelation that you were an accountant or a prostitute or a bailiff or whatever else you think is too embarrassing to reveal.” 

“Very nice speech,” Tarrant said. “But I’m not one of Blake’s ex-convicts and grand confessions aren’t my style. Anyway the money was offered to Liberator, not to you, Avon, and as you pointed out at length yesterday you aren’t in charge. What do the others think?”

Apparently the others were willing to simply accept Tarrant’s assurances that the funds were untrammelled. There was an overwhelming vote against Avon’s demand that they refuse the loan without more information. Tarrant also, it seemed, had an accountant (which made Avon wonder just how much more money the man might be sitting on) and a loan agreement over ten years would be forthcoming shortly. 

Avon was coldly furious with the way things were going. “You do realise,” he hissed at the others, “that now this fool is bankrolling us we can’t throw him out?”

“Why should we want to throw him out?” Cally asked in her being reasonable at Avon voice. It didn’t help his temper.

“Maybe when we find out what he’s been up to for the last five years! Have some sense, Cally. This is ridiculous. He’s lying to us and we’re signing up to be in his debt.”

“I haven’t lied,” Tarrant pointed out. “I’ve just refused to tell you something.”

“You told me that you’d done no work for years!” Avon snarled at him.

“I told you that I’d done nothing you’d regard as work. And I haven’t.”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

“Exactly what it says.”

“Look,” Dayna said. “Tarrant. Is this loan going to depend on you staying with Liberator?”

“Of course it is,” Tarrant said. “Why would I want to fund someone else’s circus? But if I leave voluntarily there will be an extended repayment time. You won’t just get the rug pulled out from under you.”

“And if you leave involuntarily?” Vila asked.

“Then I think I’d probably take my money with me. Wouldn’t you?”

“Blackmail, pure and simple,” Avon said. 

“Tell you what. Why don’t you go and find someone to lend us fifty grand with absolutely no strings attached and I’ll happily keep my money in my investment trust?” Tarrant smirked at him. 

“Enough!” Cally said. “Avon, we have agreed that we’re taking the money. If Tarrant leaves we’re in no worse position than we are now. Stop sniping.”

“What would Blake say about it if he were here?” It was Avon’s last, desperate line of defence.

“I think you’ll find ’What would Blake say’ doesn’t carry much weight with anyone right at the moment.” Cally was sharp. “If it hadn’t been for Blake and his ideals there wouldn’t be crazy people out there trying to burn us down.”

And that was true enough to reduce Avon to morose silence.


	6. Corvids

“There’s someone hanging around out there,” Dayna said as she came in and dropped her coat in the newly refurbished rec room.

“Yes, I know.” Avon said. He’d noticed the man when he had come in half an hour earlier to send a couple of emails about the final advertising for the reopening. Now there was someone else here to help he intended to do something about it. “Shall we have a word with him?”

Dayna grinned. “What a good idea.”

The fair haired man ducked back into the side street as Avon came out of Liberator. Avon walked past as if he hadn’t noticed, then turned right at the top of the road and came down to the other end of the street, waiting just before the junction.

After a few minutes he heard Dayna’s voice lifted, “Hey, you! I want a word with you!” 

Avon could hear running feet. He stepped out and started up the narrow side street towards the man and Dayna running behind. As the man kinked to go round him Avon grabbed him, swung him round by his own momentum and slammed him up against the side wall.

Their captive was young- in his early twenties- and not noticeably out of breath. He struggled with considerable energy for a moment then gave up as Dayna grabbed his other arm. “Let me up!” He sounded like a native, and a fairly well bred one at that.

“Who are you working for,” Avon demanded.

“Nobody! Let me go immediately! You can't do this! I haven’t done anything wrong”

“This was the scene of a major sabotage just a few weeks ago.” Avon said. “Skulking around here is not wise. We’re going to call the police, obviously but I’d like a conversation with you first. What’s your interest in Liberator?”

The man had flinched at the mention of police. “I’m just here to see a friend, that’s all. Jackdaw. He’ll vouch for me.”

“And who’s Jackdaw?” Dayna demanded.

The man looked slightly puzzled. “Your catcher? Tall guy, curly hair, attitude?”

“Tarrant.” Dayna said. “Why’d you call him Jackdaw?”

“Everyone calls him that. We’re friends. He’ll tell you.”

“And what’s your name?” Avon wasn’t letting his grip up.

“Me? I’m Rook.”

An odd nickname for a blond man. Avon doubted somehow that Tarrant been involved with an ornithological society. “Your real name?”

The young man shook his head. “Rook’s good enough. Just let Jack…Tarrant know I’m here, OK?”

“Why were you trying to avoid us?” Dayna asked. “Why didn’t you simply knock on the stage door and ask for your friend?”

Rook tried an insincere smile. “You know, old friends, new workplace doesn’t always mix. I didn’t want to get in your way; I thought I’d just wait for Jackdaw to come out.”

She looked over at Avon and raised an eyebrow. He frowned. He rather thought this Rook had circus connections; no-one else would identify a catcher specifically rather than a trapeze artist. So maybe he really was a friend of Tarrant’s, albeit a suspicious one. “We’ll take him inside to wait,” he told Dayna. “Then we’ll see what Tarrant has to say.”

The man calling himself Rook came back to Liberator peaceably enough, sat quietly in the rec room for ten minutes under Dayna’s fierce glare until Tarrant turned up for scheduled practice, on time for once.

“Through there,” Avon told him at the stage door. “There’s someone waiting for you.”

“Really? How exciting.” Tarrant strode down the corridor in his usual energetic fashion, stopping rather abruptly at the door. “Oh. Hello,” he said to Rook, his voice noticeably dropping in pitch. “Fancy meeting you here. What do you want?”

“Me? I just dropped by for a chat. Thought we could, you know, talk about old times?”

“How’d you know I was here?”

Rook took a folded piece of newspaper out of his jacket. Cally’s interview. “Saw your picture. Look, I don’t want to interrupt your practice. Why don’t we go for a beer when you’re free?”

“You might as well go now,” Avon told Tarrant. “Dayna was planning to do some juggling with Vila when he turns up anyway and I’ve got post to deal with.”

Tarrant nodded and ushered his friend out without another word.

“Well,” Dayna said. “That was odd.”

Avon nodded. “Who would have thought our chattering Jackdaw was capable of being that monosyllabic about anything? I’ll make sure I have a word with Tarrant when he gets back.” He sighed. “I don’t like the idea that everyone can find us now. I told you all that Cally should never have done those interviews. There really was no need to tell the world about what Blake did or the fire. We’re a circus, not a freak show.”

“Come on, Avon,” Dayna said. “All publicity is good publicity, remember? Since they were published the ticket agency says we’re sold out for the entire autumn run. And we couldn’t have kept it quiet forever anyway; the papers already had most of the story.”

Avon had told the security people the rest, weeks back. Nothing had happened afterwards but that was a little different from three long interviews with a Sunday paper and two glossy magazines, with lavish photographs, too. He’d objected to dressing up for the camera but he’d been overruled, as too often happened these days, so there they all were in purple and silver and a variety of smiles and one scowl. 

Avon half smiled in recollection of a different memory; Blake, wondering out loud how on earth Avon had ended up in a profession that involved pleasing people for a living. Mainly, Avon guessed, because his audience were usually a mass of distant faces beneath him and he didn’t have to interact with them at all. 

 

Tarrant turned up again after an hour, claiming he’d drunk nothing but orange juice and was fit for practice. Avon could smell no alcohol on his breath. By now he mostly trusted Tarrant to get that sort of thing right, anyway. He was frequently reckless but never outright stupid about his work.

Avon reclaimed Dayna from the jugglers and they ran through the whole trapeze set. There had been a couple of weeks off while the place was cleaned out and the flooring of Liberator’s arena was completely redone but they’d had a month’s solid practice since then and Avon was beginning to admit to himself, at least, that they were finally looking pretty tight. About time too- it was only two weeks until their ridiculously overblown grand re-opening.

After practice Avon followed Tarrant into the changing room. “What did your friend want?”

“Oh. He’s looking for a place. I thought we could give him a try out?” Tarrant had started to strip off for a shower but now he paused with his old black leggings around his ankles. He looked a little more flustered than usual. 

“No,” Avon said. “Certainly not. We don’t need anyone else and he’s even less likeable than you were.”

A small frown. “Just a trial. Half an hour would do. We wouldn’t have to say yes.” Tarrant finished undressing without looking straight at Avon. “I sort of promised,” he added.

“How close a friend is this Rook?” Avon demanded.

“Not really a friend,” Tarrant said. “Just someone I used to know.”

“So why are you promising him things you can’t deliver? Tell him to sod off.”

Tarrant winced. “I can’t really do that.”

Avon closed his eyes in sudden realisation, opened them to glare at the naked man. “He’s blackmailing you.”

For a moment it looked as if Tarrant would deny it, then he sighed. “Not in so many words but I guess that’s what it amounts to, yes.”

“That’s what comes of having secrets.” Avon said. “I suggest you stop having them. Tell us what you’re hiding then you can tell your not-friend to go to hell.”

“It’s not quite that simple.” Tarrant gestured vaguely in the air. “Even if I could tell you… it’s telling everybody.”

“What on earth makes you think everybody cares?”

“Oh, I think they might.”

That seemed remarkably unlikely to Avon, unless… “Is this something to do with Blake?”

Tarrant seemed surprised at the question. “No. Nothing at all. How could it be?”

“Well,” Avon told him, “you’re going to have to deal with your blackmailer somehow because he isn’t getting a try-out. He isn’t getting in here again under any circumstances. Blackmailers are the scum of the earth and if you give them anything at all they’ll take everything you’ve got. I am not having a member of this circus blackmailed. It could end anywhere and we have enough problems already.”

“Deal with him how?”

Avon shrugged. “I’ve given you my advice. I suggest you take it.” He headed for the shower. Behind him Tarrant was still standing motionless in the changing room.

 

The next morning Avon was close to being late himself. He’d been up until the small hours trying to find some trace of Rook and Jackdaw on the Internet. It was far too little to go on- everything that might be a lead petered out without providing any hard information at all. When he finally went to bed he'd slept badly, dreaming for God knows what reason of Blake lost. He could hear the others already warming up in the arena when he arrived. 

Avon decided that he needed a coffee before he could face talking to any of them. He was coming out of the kitchen with a hot mug when there was a knock at the stage door. He checked the camera they’d had fitted, just in case, but it was only the local neighbourhood police officer. Avon didn’t tend to like the police in general but she was tolerable; most of their contact tended to be about compliance with licences and keeping kids and troublemakers away from Liberator. 

He opened the door. “Good morning.”

“Avon.” She smiled at him. “Just the person I wanted to talk to. There was a mugging in the area last night and I wondered if you or your people had seen or heard anything?”

Avon shook his head. “I didn’t. Anyone hurt?”

“Yes, the whole thing was rather nasty.” She passed a photo to him. For a moment Avon didn’t recognise the man in the picture under the bruises and swellings. When he did he made sure he didn’t show it.

“I don’t think I’ve seen him before. What’s his name?”

“William Lazenby. He was found last night in Martin Street, a couple of hundred yards from here. It seems to have been just a random mugging. He says that his attackers were a couple of black teenagers and that they took his wallet and phone. The guy’s very shaken up, obviously.” 

“Very unpleasant.” Avon examined the picture again. “Nothing rings any bells I’m afraid. I could get the others to take a look when they are free.”

The police officer nodded. “If you could. Get them to give the station a ring if they’ve got anything at all. Anyone who could do this- we need to get them off the street. Thanks, Avon. I’ll leave this photo with you.”

Avon went back inside, dropped the photo face down on his desk then went in search of Tarrant who was laughing with Dayna by the rig.

“Give me your hands.”

For a moment he thought Tarrant would refuse but the man sighed and held them out. Avon ran a thumb ungently across the bruising on the right. “You’ve just screwed up our rehearsal schedule again. Ice this once every two hours and stay off the bar completely for two days. You can take over the admin instead.” He glared up into the man’s face. “And never risk your fingers like that again while you’re my catcher.”

As he walked off he could hear Dayna’s voice raised in puzzlement and Tarrant’s laugh.


	7. Misunderstandings

Avon excused himself, as he usually did, from the communal plans for dinner. His fellow performers were just about tolerable to work with but he didn't choose their company the rest of the time, not these days. Besides, he had a name now to go on and he wanted to do some research.

Several hours after leaving he walked back from his flat through the darkness and let himself quietly back into Liberator.

The rec room light was on and he could hear Tarrant playing a computer game. The man's camp bed was now a permanent fixture in there but it sounded as if he was still up. Avon took a quick look around but everyone else was gone.

He stood in the doorway. "Tarrant."

Tarrant looked up, paused the game. Avon could see the bowl of ice beside the controller. "Hello. I wasn't expecting you back tonight. Forgotten something?"

"No. I thought while it's just the two of us you could show me something of your speciality on the rig." 

There was a pause before Tarrant nodded. “Sure, why not?” He thumbed the game off. “Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll join you in the changing room.”

Tarrant was clad in leggings Avon hadn’t seen before, black with dark leather strips, as he led the way up the ladder. Avon wondered what had triggered the change. When he reached the board he leaned down to swing Avon up next to him. Avon taped his hands up as usual but Tarrant waved the roll away. “Not with these grazes.” 

“Hang reverse,” Tarrant told Avon when he was ready, passing him the bar. Avon nodded, swung out and flipped, hooking his knees over the flybar and hanging head downwards. He swung for a moment, watching Tarrant on the board. This was all unexpectedly compliant. He’d expected some stronger attempt to keep Tarrant’s secrets. 

“OK. Hup.” Tarrant launched himself off the board, hands grabbing the bar either side of Avon’s knees, his legs wrapping around Avon’s back. 

“Now what?” Avon called up to him. All he could see was a leather clad rear end. 

“Keep the swing and don’t fall off,” Tarrant called down. “We’re starting simple for now.” 

Avon could feel Tarrant’s warm hands at his hips, all the weight of the man now round his rib cage rather than supported by the bar. He tried to anticipate the next move- a handstand he guessed, from the tightness of the clamped fingers. He tensed, muscles ready to support the shift of Tarrant’s weight as the man moved. 

Instead Tarrant’s hands seemed to have slipped upwards, pushing Avon’s own leggings over his hipbones. It was an unusually clumsy error for the other man and Avon wondered if the bruised hand was a problem. “Tarrant!”

“Hold on.” Tarrant’s voice still seemed relaxed. The weight lifted; Tarrant must have taken hold of the bar again. “Now we’re there.” 

That seemed unlikely, since Avon’s leggings had been dragged halfway up his thighs, the cold air uncomfortable. “Shift off,” he told Tarrant. 

“Not yet.” Tarrant said. For a moment Avon assumed that sensation he was feeling was the man trying to rearrange his clothing. It took a good five seconds before he figured out what was actually happening. Then his voice rose rather further than he'd intended.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" 

"Relax," Tarrant's hand had apparently replaced his mouth. “I’ve done this before. You can always do a bit of groping yourself if you feel like it. "

Much to his dismay Avon could feel himself getting hard as Tarrant touched him. He braced himself against the calves wrapped around his back and straightened his legs, sliding off the bar and falling awkwardly the twenty five feet into the net, hitting it on his back with Tarrant still entangled.

"Hey!" Tarrant grumbled as he crawled off Avon, cradling his bruised hand. “What the hell was that about?”

Avon felt a brief flutter of guilt for all the safety procedures he'd just disregarded. "You tell me. You assaulted me!" 

"Assaulted you? You propositioned me!"

Avon tugged his leggings up with a little difficulty. "I most certainly did not!" 

Tarrant was frowning at him. "But you did." He looked worryingly sincere. "You asked me to show you- what did you think we were doing up there?" 

Avon sat up on the net. “All I asked you,” he said through clenched teeth, “was to show me what the Blackbirds did.”

Tarrant pulled himself up to sit an arm’s length opposite. “No, you definitely didn’t. I’d have remembered that. Where did you get that name, anyway?”

“I hacked your friend Lazenby’s media account.” It hadn’t been difficult- the boy had used Rook123 as a password. 

“And he mentioned the Blackbirds?” Disbelief in Tarrant’s voice. “I’d have hit the bastard a great deal harder if I’d known that.”

“Not deliberately. One of his photos had part of an invoice shown on it.” It was a snap at night from a hotel window and the piece of paper had been reflected in the glass.

“An invoice?” Tarrant sounded even more surprised. “They have invoices now? What did it say?”

Not enough to be illuminating. Blackbirds International had charged a performance fee, something called an interactive component fee plus hotels and travel for six. The amounts hadn’t been shown, unfortunately. “What would you expect it to say?”

Tarrant shrugged. “God knows. We didn’t have invoices in my day. Anyway, that was well done, Avon. Good sleuthing. It seems you now know next to nothing about me instead of nothing. Are we done here, since you seem to have changed your mind rather abruptly about getting friendly?”

“I didn’t change my mind.” Avon insisted. “I never intended…”

“Oh, I know that now,” Tarrant said cheerfully. “Your squeals of virginal outrage were a dead giveaway. Never mind. Maybe I’ll invite you up again when you aren’t too busy playing amateur detective.” 

Avon glared at him. “Don’t bother.” There was a noise from the offices and he turned, the net swaying under him. “Who else is here?”

“No-one,” Tarrant said. “Did you lock the door?”

Avon closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, visualising. He’d been intent on confronting Tarrant. He’d unlocked the door, it had swung shut behind him and…”No.” He started to scramble for the side of the net but froze as a group of people appeared at the stage entrance. 

Four of them. Before he got moving again they had spread out to cover the two stage exits. Avon glanced back at the main auditorium doors but they were locked- from the inside, admittedly, but it would take a while to get the heavy doors unlocked and open. 

“What do you think you’re doing in here?” he demanded of the woman who was obviously in charge, trying for a tone of authority despite the fact he was half naked and sprawled on an oscillating safety net five feet off the floor. 

“Get down,” she said, with the rather more convincing authority that came of having three armed thugs covering her back and all the available exits. The Zellan accent was strong and not at all unexpected. 

The net undulated wildly- Tarrant, going not for the floor but the ladder to the catcher’s board. “Idiot,” Avon thought automatically, but he could tell as well as Tarrant that the net would be the worst possible place to be caught in the event of violence. It would hamper his movements badly while affording no protection at all to attacks from underneath. 

That made his choices simple; deliver himself into the hands of this hard eyed Zellan agent and her men or, like his colleague, take temporary refuge on the rig. The woman gestured her people forward and Avon rolled towards the nearest ladder and started pulling himself as fast as he could up towards the main board. He stopped twelve feet or so off the net to reassess the situation.

No-one seemed to have a gun. That was a positive thing in the circumstances. One of the men had scrambled onto the net and was now discovering that walking across it was an acquired skill. As Avon watched he stumbled forward, put his hand on the knife blade that he was carrying and cursed furiously. 

The others were still on the ground, and Tarrant had reached the catcher’s board. Avon decided that he ought to open some sort of dialogue.

“Send your people away and we might be prepared to talk to you,” he told the woman. 

She tipped her head up to look up at him. “Come down now and we will not kill you.”

“Not sufficiently enticing. No.”

“When we will cut the ropes you will fall.” 

Avon had designed this rig, and built it (over every one of Blake’s objections about the cost) flexible enough for whatever Liberator might want to put on. It was anchored not just to the floor but to the high roof of the building. To an amateur eye it might look fragile but Avon reckoned that every rope at ground level could be cut or loosened off, the two centre poles sawn through and he and Tarrant would still be up there. Very annoyed, in his case, at the wanton destruction of his prize and joy but not plummeting thirty feet to death or capture in a tangle of ropes.. 

“I’ll take my chances up here,” he told her.

“What exactly are you after?” Tarrant called down. “We might come to some sort of arrangement?”

Avon scowled up at Tarrant. “Do keep quiet,” he hissed.

“And how’s keeping quiet going to help me? What do you want from us?” That to the woman.

The man on the net had got as far as the bottom of the rope ladder and was glaring up at Avon. His right hand was still curled up and bleeding and he held the knife awkwardly in his left. Avon moved another few feet upwards, just to be on the safe side. Either Vila or Cally could throw a knife twenty feet directly upwards and do some damage to the target but then neither of them would have cut themselves badly on their own blade. Whatever else he was, this guy was not a professional knife thrower, and having seen him thrash around on the net Avon was equally sure that he wouldn’t be able to climb the swaying rope ladder without at least one unencumbered hand. 

“You will tell me what happened in Kamir.” She was talking to Tarrant now. He shrugged. 

“Not a clue. I wasn’t there. Ask him.” 

Her attention switched to Avon. “You will tell me now.”

“Read the newspapers,” Avon told her. “It’s all in there.”

“I will burn down this place again if you do not talk,” she warned him.

That would be just about ideal. The alarms were now linked to the nearest station; in less than four minutes the place would be swarming with fire officers and police. Unfortunately her mob didn’t seem to have come equipped for arson this time. Without outside interference Avon was struggling to see his way out of here. 

He didn’t much care for answering her questions but he could think of nothing that he could tell her that would do any harm. “What exactly do you want to know?”

“I want the names of the agents who conspired with your Blake to assassinate Premier Braiken.”

The man on the net has slumped down against the central pole and was trying to bandage his hand with a strip of T shirt. No-one seemed to be interested in helping him. Avon considered it safe enough to drop down a few feet again, so he didn’t have to shout so loud.

“Hal Mellanby was the man who made all the arrangements for us to perform in Kamir. We- I- didn’t meet anyone else. If there were agents I didn’t know about it.”

Dayna had said her father was dead. These people must have known about him. It wasn’t as if Avon was giving anything away.

“How much was Roj Blake paid to murder the Premier?”

Avon laughed at that. “You don’t know much about Blake. Nobody paid him. I imagine he thought whatever he did would be a good idea.” Blake had been wrong before but never that spectacularly.

“Who told him to do it?” she insisted. 

Avon shrugged. “My guess is no-one did. We were performing for President Maillen. We didn’t even know Braiken would be there until a short while before. I think Blake and Mellanby had some plan to grab Maillen temporarily as part of a political protest. Braiken could only have been a last minute substitution.” 

 

It had been tense beforehand, that was what Avon mostly remembered. Blake had been on edge since they’d got to Kamir but he’d refused to tell the others what was going on. Nothing to worry about, he’d insisted. Then a couple of hours before the presidential performance Blake had come in to tell them that Premier Braiken of Zella, the leader of the largest and most repressive political bloc in this part of the world had dropped in on an unannounced state visit to his country’s satellite state of Kamir and would be in their audience.

Blake had tried to seem light hearted and unconcerned about it but Avon had known better. From Blake’s viewpoint Maillen would be an incompetent pantomime villain ruling a postage stamp country but Braiken would have to be the real deal, head of a vicious and powerful police state that kept millions repressed and voiceless. 

By this point Liberator’s people was almost certainly being spied upon, so Avon kept his protests general, arguing vehemently for cancelling the performance and trusting that Blake understood his real concerns. “He’ll have ridiculous levels of security. I don’t want to perform in front of two dozen machine guns pointed my way- do you?”

But Blake’s eyes were alight with zeal and he waved aside everything Avon said. “This is an opportunity, Avon. The performance of a lifetime. How many people get to perform in front of the Premier of Zella?”

They'd been discussing the matter heatedly for only a few minutes when Mellanby cane in, poker faced and accompanied by two armed guards, to inform them that failing to go on that night was not an option. Both the president and the premier would be extremely insulted, and insulting the president here was a criminal matter of grave seriousness. 

Avon had seen no real alternative to going along with it, so they'd done the first half of the show as rehearsed and been ushered back to the changing rooms for the half hour interval. It was Vila who'd noticed that they were one person down. 

“Where's Blake?”

“He was here a minute ago,” Cally said. “Men’s room?”

Avon checked. “No. We ought to find him. Now.” 

He pushed the door open, at which point he discovered that there was a guard outside. Avon could hear loud applause coming from the main arena. 

"Damn! There wasn't an interval show. That's Blake out there." He tried walking out and got the muzzle of a gun waved in his face. As he backed up the door was slammed shut. 

"This is ridiculous," Jenna insisted. "Let me deal with the guard." She pushed her way out and Avon could hear her familiar flirtatious voice. Then there was a gasp and she stumbled backwards through the doorway, hands up to her face. "The bastard gunwhipped me!" Again the door swung closed.

More heavy applause and excited voices came through, then a silence far too sudden to be natural. Jenna was sitting on the bench, blood from somewhere near her eye leaking out from between her fingers. Vila was confirming the absence of any other exits, cursing. Cally came to stand next to Avon. "What do you think is happening?" 

"Something very bad." The unseen audience gasped and there were screams, not of excitement but terror. "I don’t think we should stay here any longer. We may have to rush the guard."

"All right." Cally said grimly. Before Avon could formulate any more of a plan the door opened and the guard was looking at them, gun in his hand. 

"Run," he said, the heavily accented word barely understandable. "Run." He stepped back to block the corridor towards the arena, gestured down the other way with the gun. "Mellanby! Run!" 

"All right," Vila said. "We're running. Come on! "

Avon hadn't chosen to get gunned down in a heroic but futile attempt to rescue Blake from the man’s own folly. He'd run, like the others, down the empty corridor and out through a service door. The machine gunfire had started as they ducked down a back street and it had carried on for some time, the soundtrack to their desperate flight through a city none of them knew.

Somewhere in all the frantic running and hiding Avon and Vila had lost Cally and Jenna with no way to find them again. They’d found themselves on the edge of the city and taken refuge in the forest. For nearly a week they’d just kept hidden in undergrowth, still wearing only their costumes and surviving on nothing more than rainwater, and neither the thousands of troops combing the area nor the helicopters’ search lights had found them. When the search had finally lifted they’d started making their slow, slow way across the thousand miles that separated them from any country that might be friendly or at least neutral, stealing everything they needed to stay alive.

Avon had discovered early on from discarded newspapers that Braiken was dead. It had not been until they’d left the zone of Zella’s direct influence weeks later that he found out how it had happened. The premier had been shot, apparently in error, by one of his own bodyguards after been dragged by Blake and Mellanby for whatever purpose up onto the rig. No-one was reporting on what had happened to any of Liberator’s people. If they’d fallen into the hands of Zella’s security service then no-one might ever find out. All Avon and Vila could do in the end was come home.

That was, moreorless, the story that Cally had told the newspapers. Avon tried to tell bits of it again, but the woman wasn’t interested. All she wanted was to know who the conspirators had been, what country had arranged the assassination, who Blake had been working for. In the end she stopped shouting questions up at him and stood a little further back, watching him without speaking. Even from that distance her anger was clear on her face. 

Avon could understand her frustration. That the most powerful man in nearly half the world could have been killed by accident by a couple of idealistic circus performers and a careless bodyguard was not a narrative that she or her bosses back in Zella were likely to be able to accept. Unfortunately it was the only story he had to give her. 

He glanced over at Tarrant, hunkered down quietly on the catcher’s board. The man hadn’t said anything for a while but now he frowned back across at Avon with the slightest shake of his head. Avon didn’t need the warning that they were back in trouble again.


	8. Interactive

The limp safety net trailed across the ground ropes, in places half buried in the sawdust when it had been trampled on. Avon sat on the main board, legs dangling thirty feet above the arena floor, one hand wrapped around a rope, just in case. 

Tarrant was fiddling around with the ropes on the catcher’s board. Neither of them had called any words across the distance that separated them. Avon could think of nothing that needed to be said. This situation, after all, could in no way be considered his fault and he had no intention of apologising on Blake’s behalf.

They must have been up on the rig for a couple of hours now. It had to be well past midnight. The chill had raised goosebumps along his arms and every few minutes he had to swing his arms and legs around to keep his blood circulating but that was the least of his problems. 

The men had dismantled part of the seating and dragged it in front of the doors, forming what looked from Avon’s high perch like remarkably effective barricades. No chance of simply making a run for it now. He checked again on his meagre defensive resources; a loose length of thick rope, the lightweight and unwieldy long hook used to pull the bar in, the bag of ground chalk. It wasn’t much against men with knives and probably no compunction against killing. 

The small group on the ground were conferring now. After a few seconds the two uninjured men broke away, striding for the ladder. Now. Avon’s stomach made an unhelpfully loud noise. He could climb up to the board in twenty seconds. How much longer would it take them?

“Avon!” Tarrant’s voice came urgently. “Cross!” The catcher was readying his bar. “Come on!”

From one trapped perch to another but two of them together might stand a better chance. Avon glanced down at the lead man starting to climb, at the remains of the safety net scuffed on the ground. Shit. Tarrant was already on his bar, body twisting as he transferred power to the swing. Avon didn’t have any more time to think it over. 

He seized the flybar and launched himself, aware that he’d screwed up the timing and Tarrant was a beat and a half too far ahead of him, aware of the space beneath his feet with nothing to stop his fall, aware of the man climbing faster, aware of the numbers, counted as automatic as breathing. Three swings to gain height, one to flip from handhold to knees, half to meet Tarrant in the most simple and safe of handoffs. Five seconds a swing, and each one passing over the board. If the man climbing reached the main board before Avon got off the flybar he could be stabbed or captured or dragged off the bar to his death below. 

First swing. He’d lost his view of the ladder but he caught a glimpse of where Tarrant was looking- more than half way up. Second swing, and thank god that Tarrant had slowed a fraction to get them back in synchronicity. Third, and as he went outward past the board he saw a head rising above the wooden stand. Tarrant had reversed so his hands were free. No time for the fourth swing and Avon’s flip; he yelled “Hup!” at his catcher, swung for the last time over the man emerging onto the board and let go of the bar at its furthest extent, flying towards Tarrant feet first.

It could have taken no more than two seconds to cross the space between them. To Avon it felt like an eternity before one ankle was yanked hard and he was swinging beneath Tarrant. He bent upwards to grab at Tarrant’s wrist, got halfway and his muscles failed him.

“Take a few breaths,” Tarrant advised from above him. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Avon wanted to explain that his idea of “safe” didn’t involve hanging upside by one ankle over a lethal drop with no net or line, a thoroughly reckless catcher and an audience who apparently intended to kill him. He didn’t have the energy for that, however, so he took several deep breaths, successfully got himself up as far as Tarrant’s extended arms and pulled himself with a complete lack of any grace up the man’s body until he was finally standing on the bar on either side of Tarrant’s knees. 

It was a short jump down off the bar onto the catchers board, but it took Avon two more swings before he could get up the nerve to do it, grabbing at the ropes with one hand as he stumbled onto the wooden platform. He’d never been stupid enough to come up here before without net or safety rope. His heart was pounding in his ears.

Tarrant was laughing as he leaped off the bar, his forward momentum pushing him into Avon’s space. Avon wrapped his free arm around the man to steady him and Tarrant, eyes sparkling, put both arms around him and kissed him.

Avon let him. In the circumstances he could hardly push him away, after all. There was barely room up here for both of them even without brawling. Besides, Tarrant was warm and alive and apparently not at all terrified by any of this and had just plucked him out of the air. Avon clung on for the moment as if he had no other choice. 

Tarrant disengaged eventually and dropped to his knees to peer down at the people below. The men had climbed down again from the main board and were now starting up the ladder on the catcher’s side, towards them. Possibly in acknowledgement of the extra defender above them they were climbing together, one each side of the ladder. 

“What can we do?” Avon demanded because he was out of ideas. 

“Watch them climb and look worried,” Tarrant told him. “Just like that, yes. Call out when they get to five feet away.”

Avon risked a look back at his partner, who had his hands on the rearranged ropes. One glance at those was enough to tell Avon what was going to happen. He nodded once in acknowledgement of Tarrant’s plans then seized the chalk bag. As the men crossed the halfway point he tipped it over them, his fingers tight round a little of the contents so that it wasn’t left empty. As he’d predicted they did nothing but pause briefly to brush the fine powder from their faces but it hopefully looked as if he was desperate. 

It seemed to have worked because they kept coming, were almost up, twenty five feet with nothing below them. “Hup”, he called out. The rope ladder slithered free and the men fell with it. One of them hit the floor on his back, smashed the back of his skull hard and didn’t move again. The other was sprawled on top of him, screaming; Avon thought he’d broken at least a leg or kneecap on impact. 

Avon and Tarrant sat side by side with their legs dangling and watched the chaos below. 

“That was fun,” Tarrant said with great satisfaction. Avon had just watched a man fall off his rig and probably die. His rig. He thought about that for a moment.

“I suppose it was.”

A hand slid over his bare back and curled around his waist. “I’m rather glad that we’re of the same opinion about this.” Tarrant pulled him closer. “No-one will be coming back up here for a while. In the absence of a net I’m guessing you won’t want to try the bar but there’s room enough here on the board.” 

Avon tried to ignore the warm fingers now sliding under his waistband. “We’re thirty feet up on a rig with an audience and you want to have sex? Never mind the absence of a net, that’s crazy.”

“Old habits die hard,” Tarrant said. 

Avon took a deep breath. He had the feeling that he’d been very stupid. “That’s what the Blackbirds were. Just one of those adult circus acts.”

Tarrant shuddered. “God no. A flash of your arse and a few cheap tricks? I worked in one of those for a while. They’re two a penny and there’s no real money in it.”

“So what were they?”

Tarrant’s hand smoothed over Avon’s hip. “Kiss me again and I’ll tell you.”

“I didn’t kiss you the first time,” Avon was prevaricating.

“Oh, you most certainly did. Come on, Avon. Curiosity is killing you.”

Heights and foreign agents were far more likely to kill him tonight than curiosity. Still… “And what will they think?” He gestured downwards. The woman had apparently given up on the still body, and she and the man with the cut hand were trying to stop the other one screaming. 

“That you’re thanking me for saving your life, probably.”

“You’re my catcher. It’s your job to catch me.” 

“Yes,” Tarrant told him, briefly serious. “I know I’ve been obscured by Blake’s shadow since I arrived but I am your catcher. I wouldn’t tell you anything otherwise, even for the prospect of making love to you. Do we have a deal?”

Avon ought to have said no, but the sweat had dried on his skin and the biting chill was everywhere except where Tarrant’s hand rested. That, as much as curiosity, had him turning round, pulling the warmth of the other man close as he could manage with one arm, other hand still wrapped safely around a main rope as he kissed Tarrant as hard as if he could somehow draw the man’s body heat into his. 

Tarrant wasn’t holding onto anything. One hand was behind Avon’s back, caressing his arse, while the other had slid between his legs. It was a great deal more than a kiss but then Tarrant always did overstep the mark. Avon wouldn’t have thought that he could possibly get aroused whilst half frozen, terrified, watched by people who wanted to kill him and within sight of a dead body but the kiss was hot and the hands were extraordinarily deft and if Tarrant really wanted to spend the next few minutes jerking him off up there then Avon might just hold onto the rope this time and let him do it. 

It was Tarrant who pulled back from the kiss, however, his hand resting lightly over the bulge in Avon’s leggings. “I want to do this,” he told Avon. “I want it very much indeed, but I think that I probably need to tell you about the Blackbirds first.” 

“Go on then,” Avon said, his voice not quite as harsh as he’d intended. “How did you get involved with these Blackbirds?”

“I didn’t get involved with them,” Tarrant said, an unexpected hint of pride in his voice. “I created them. It goes back further than that, to the start of my last year at the Academy. I’d started to gamble maybe a bit more than was wise, had a bit of a row with my family and was having money problems. So I did a few late shifts for He Men to pay the rent. You know them?”

Avon nodded recognition. The He Men outfit had been around for years, entertaining hen parties with innuendo and skimpy costumes. Tarrant could no doubt have done the work in his sleep, even as a student, and he would have been just their type. Avon wouldn’t have contemplated it for a moment, but then he would never have been asked to join.

“Well, after a few sessions the guy running it asked me if I’d like to make some better money, cash in hand. They were running a private session off the books and they needed a couple of guys to pretend to having sex on the bar, well enough to convince a particularly gullible punter. The other chap and I did a couple of rehearsals, but we couldn’t get it looking like anything but a fake, so when it came to the gig we just went for it. Huge tip from the punter cleared about half my debts. Repeat performance for someone else a few months later and I walked away with over a grand from that one. It was pretty obvious that we were onto something, so I put together the Birds."

Avon frowned. “So you were an adult trapeze act?”

“Not ‘adult’,” Tarrant insisted. “Adult shows are legal, boring and cheap. We were none of those. We were a fully pornographic, absolutely no faking, any way you can imagine five-way sex on a flying trapeze act.” 

Avon felt that he should probably feel either appalled or relieved. Maybe he would later. “Sounds like a bit of a niche market.”

“You’d be surprised,” Tarrant told him. “I knew we’d have to be good, really good, not just a dodgy adult show like He Men with a bit of real sex for shock value. We were professionals. We wanted to be the illegal entertainment of choice for the rich and famous across the world, the best trapeze act they’d ever seen even without the sex. I picked good people, we put the work in and that's what we were. After that it was a matter of running the gigs and taking the money while keeping anyone from finding out.”

“Just like that?” Avon asked, a hint of sarcasm to cover the space where his real reaction didn’t appear to be.

“Not just like that. It didn't always go right. Four months in we failed to stay under the radar and got six lousy months in a bloody horrible gaol in the Islands- that was the worst bit. After that we were more careful but every so often we had to make a rapid departure to avoid the local police - we left a lot of equipment behind. We took half the money in advance but not everyone paid up afterwards. It wasn’t always straightforward, but I found people who’d sort out our travel documentation for us, companies that would transport the rigs around for cash, no questions asked, a few promoters that we trusted and who know how to reach us to make bookings. By the time I left it was all a pretty smooth operation and the money was rolling in.”

“So why did you leave?”

Tarrant laughed. “I just got tired of it. I’d made enough to keep me going for a few years, and I thought it might be fun to do tricks for an audience who didn’t have their eyes on my cock and their hands on theirs the whole time. I was on holiday, thinking about what to do next, when I heard about Blake. I’d heard good things of Liberator and it certainly didn't sound like you would be boring so I came over to see what you were like. And that’s the lot.”

Tarrant’s hand had started moving again. Avon brushed it away automatically. He was thinking. Below, the man and woman were arguing over their injured colleague, harsh words in a language he didn’t know.

“Not everything.” Avon’s voice had harshened too this time without him intending it to.

“No?”

“What’s an interactive component?”

There was a flicker of the eyes away from him. Tarrant’s voice was still cheerful. “I’ve no idea. Was that off this mysterious invoice?”

“Yes.” Avon told him. “Interactive component, three performers and an extra charge.”

Tarrant shrugged. “We didn’t charge for anything but the performance and expenses. Must be something the new coach has introduced. I don’t know.”

“But I think you can guess,” Avon said. “What did you do that was interactive, Tarrant? Obviously you’re interacting with each other, but that’s what the main performance is about. Who else did you interact with? Go on. Take a wild stab at it.”

“Do I need to guess when you clearly have already?” Tarrant retorted.

“I’d like to hear your explanation.”

“Very well.” Tarrant had drawn a little further back from Avon. The air was even more bitingly cold. “We relied entirely on personal recommendations- we couldn’t advertise, obviously- so we had to keep the punters happy, particularly since they were paying upwards of ten thousand pounds a time for a show. Sometimes they wanted a bit of a go themselves. It was basically the same as any circus skills taster session; harness them up, get them up the ladder, show them how to get on and off the bar, let them have a go at a swing and a fall in the net.”

“Only you’d also had sex with them while they were up there.” Avon said.

“Yes.”

“So prostitutes as well as pornographers.” 

“We never charged for it,” Tarrant protested.

“Sophistry. Besides, apparently they do now.” Avon looked pointedly around the confined area of the catcher’s bar. “This is all in a night’s work for you, then. Should I expect an invoice tomorrow for your professional services?”

“I thought you’d probably be a prig about that bit,” Tarrant told him. 

“I’m not a prig,” Avon told him. “What appalling depravities you committed on the noble art of trapeze in order to make obscene amounts of money is your own business. I just don’t particularly relish the idea of being next in the line after God knows how many stupid rich punters that you’ve spread your legs for up here in the process.” 

“That’s quite possibly the most priggish statement I’ve ever heard,” Tarrant told him. “If you’d told me that you only sleep with virgins it would have saved us both some time.”

“There’s a bit of a difference between an active sexual history and five years as a whore. How many of them were there, anyway? A hundred? Two?”

“I didn’t keep count,” Tarrant told him. “I can tell you exactly how many boyfriends I’ve had, if you like. Unlike you, I can tell the difference.”

A thump drew both their attentions to the floor. The man was dragging items away from the barricade in front of the left hand stage door. The woman had drawn her knife over the man with the broken leg, now apparently only semi conscious, and as Avon watched she stabbed him in the side of the neck. She looked up at the two of them, anger clear on her face, then dropped the knife and went to help her comrade. In a couple of minutes they had got the door open and disappeared through it.

There was silence for a moment.

“They might be waiting for us,” Avon said.

“They might,” Tarrant agreed. “We could stay safe up here all night and argue until one of the others gets in tomorrow morning.”

Avon sighed. “Watch the door,” he told Tarrant. “Shout if you see anything at all.” He dusted his hands, swung out onto one of the slanting main ropes and slid hand over hand down to the ground. Picking up the discarded knife, he flattened himself against the wall and made his way slowly round to the open door. Tarrant was still watching it.

Avon ducked his head around. Nothing in the corridor. The door to the changing room was open as they’d left it hours before. He turned round to beckon Tarrant down but the man was already sliding to the floor. Avon waited for Tarrant to join him and they tiptoed around the back rooms, encountering no-one, until they got to the office and a working telephone. 

“Are you going to call the police?” Tarrant asked, sounding cautious.

“With two dead bodies bleeding into my sawdust? Of course I am. As I keep telling absolutely everyone, I have nothing at all to hide.” Avon snapped back. 

“I did actually kill one of them,” Tarrant said. “That might be a bit awkward, especially if they start digging. They might not find the Blackbirds but they’ll find a large gap.”

“Tell them you were working as a rent boy,” Avon said, without sympathy. “That’s not illegal. I am not going to start hiding corpses because you’re embarrassed about your CV.”

Tarrant sighed, pushed the phone over to Avon. “Do it then. We might as well get this over with. I would like to know if you’re intending to tell everyone about the Blackbirds though. There are some people I ought to warn, for a start.”

Avon stopped, hand on the receiver. “I thought that you told me in confidence?”

“I did. But the way you reacted- I wasn’t sure you’d keep it.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Avon said, stiffly. “Go and put some clothes on. It’s going to be a long night.” He caught himself watching the man walking out of the office. Pointless, now. Avon turned instead to the phone and started to dial.


	9. The Price

It was after 4am when Avon was finally allowed to go home. He declined the offer of an escort, ducked under the police tape festooning the doorways and set off down the dark street, turning abruptly at the sound of a footstep close behind him.

It was just Tarrant with his holdall.

“Where are you going?” Avon demanded.

“I can’t sleep in a crime scene, apparently.” Tarrant sounded exhausted. “The police told me to find a hotel.”

“I thought you hated hotels.”

“Well remembered.” Tarrant managed a brief smile. “There’s a bench in the park. It will do.”

There was a bitter wind blowing. Avon sighed. “I have a sofa,” he said in the least enthusiastic tone he could manage.

“Excellent,” Tarrant said. “Lead on.”

Back at his flat Avon dug out a pile of blankets and tossed them on the couch. “Don’t wake me in the morning,” he instructed and retreated to his bedroom with the door closed. 

For a few minutes he listened to the unfamiliar sound of someone else wandering around his place. Then Tarrant fell silent and Avon huddled under his own duvet and tried to sleep. 

It was difficult. He was still chilled through. He tried not to think about Tarrant, a few yards and two doors away. Instead he thought about the woman from Zella and her questions. She hadn’t asked where Blake was. Did that mean that he was dead? Or did she just know that Avon knew nothing? What would they have done if they’d captured him? How lucky that Tarrant was cold blooded enough to deliberately drop the men to their deaths. Of course Avon had known that was what Tarrant was doing and hadn’t tried to stop him. No flicker of guilt there on his part; the men could have killed them. Was Tarrant capable of feeling remorse about anything at all?

He’d come full circle again, back to Tarrant and his professional activities. Any way you could imagine, the man had said, and with anyone who paid him. What sort of sex could possibly mean anything to a lover after that? Just gymnastics, Tarrant had said when they’d first met. Avon hadn’t really understood what he meant then, but he did now

Avon didn’t need a sex toy, particularly not a second hand one. He’d tell his catcher to keep his hands where they ought to be and to stop kissing him and that would be the end of the matter. He tugged the duvet closer and rolled over. 

The next thing he knew was a hand on his shoulder and the smell of coffee.

“I told you not to wake me,” he hissed, eyes closed. 

“It’s not morning any more. Also I thought you might like to know that we are besieged by journalists.” 

Hell. Avon opened his eyes, reached out for the coffee. “Don’t open the door.”

“Ah. I already did.” Tarrant sounded slightly repentant about that. 

“I trust you had some clothes on at the time?” Avon glared at the black underpants which seemed to be all his catcher was wearing.

“One clothes, technically,” Tarrant said. “This one.”

Christ. Avon pushed himself up the bed. “Where are the rest, for God’s sake?”

“In the wash. I thought you wouldn’t mind. You vetoed the purchase of a washing machine for Liberator and it’s a mile to the nearest laundrette.”

Avon pointed to his wardrobe. “Find something that fits. Did they take photos?”

“A bit.” Tarrant said vaguely. Avon took that to mean that Tarrant had happily posed for them at the entrance to his flat for at least ten minutes. He told himself that he had far more important things to worry about than the world thinking Tarrant was sharing his bed but it was still aggravating. 

He emerged from a quick shower to find Tarrant rummaging through the papers on his desk. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Looking for this.” Tarrant waved the blown up photo of the reflected invoice. 

“You could have asked.”

“Asking you never seems to get me anywhere.” Tarrant had found a long jacket and a pair of too short trousers. “It’s a bit boring, isn’t it?”

“The invoice?” An odd statement. Invoices weren’t known for being exciting. 

“Yes. I'd have spiced it up a bit, added some pictures, but this just looks like one of Liberator’s.” 

“That’s hardly surprising. It’s just…” Avon picked it up for a closer look. He steadied his voice carefully. “Just an ordinary circus invoice.” He folded it and put it in his back pocket. “Time for some very late breakfast. You can tell me what happened to the Blackbirds after you left.”

Tarrant had apparently wanted to wrap up the Birds, but the others had been keen to carry on. They’d bought out his interest (at a very nice price too, Tarrant said cheerfully) and continued. 

“I didn’t think they’d last long,” Tarrant said. “They were all good flyers and hot as hell but there wasn’t a businessman’s brain between them and I’d always done most of the choreography.”

“So what happened?” Avon asked, buttering a piece of toast and passing it over. 

“Thanks. They found themselves a manager, I gather. Hence the invoices. Rook didn’t get on with him and left but he said they were hiring new people so I presume they’re still out there.”

Avon frowned at that. “You don’t stay in touch?”

“We agreed when I left that we wouldn’t. Too risky. Besides they’re out of the country nine months a year, performing all over the world. It wouldn’t exactly be easy.”

Avon sat back in his chair. “I’d like to see a performance,” he said casually.

Tarrant half choked on his toast. “Really? You’re joking!”

“Not at all. I think it would be very illuminating. Do you think you could arrange that?”

“No.” Tarrant said firmly. “The one thing that no client in existence can be expected to tolerate is random spectators. There’s an absolute rule against anyone sitting in.”

“Then a rehearsal, maybe?”

“Not a chance. Sorry. Even if I was still in I wouldn’t be able to let you watch us rehearsing. Girlfriends, boyfriends, no-one was allowed to know what we did.”

“But you told me,” Avon said.

Tarrant grimaced at him. “And that was probably a mistake, given your reaction. Still, it’s done now.”

“It would be a lot easier to process the information,” Avon said, “if I could see them.” He paused, wondering if now was the time. He thought so. “You could commission a performance.”

“What?” Tarrant stared at him. “Hire them?”

“Yes. Ten thousand pounds, you said. I know you’ve got that sort of money lying around doing nothing. Then there could be no objection to my watching them.”

“And what possible reason could I give for wanting to splash out ten thousand pounds on watching my own act?”

Avon took a breath. “Just tell them your boyfriend wants to see it,” he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“You mean lie?” Tarrant asked.

“Not necessarily.” Avon was well aware that Tarrant knew him well; he mustn’t sound eager or affectionate. “I’m considering it. I think a little more visual information would assist in my considerations. 

Tarrant drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “You’re setting a high price, then, for your affections. Isn’t that a bit mercenary?”

“Your previous occupation goes far beyond mercenary,” Avon told him. “Initially I decided that it was simply intolerable. This is my reconsideration. I doubt if there will be any further concessions.” 

The other man looked him slowly up and down. “Ten thousand pounds, huh? That’s a lot more than I ever charged anyone. For that I might expect something spectacular.”

“I’m promising nothing of the sort,” Avon said. “After all I haven’t got anything like your extensive professional experience. Still, take it or leave it, Tarrant.”

Tarrant sighed. “All I was after at first was to ruffle your feathers a bit, have some fun. Now crazy foreign people are trying to kill me and you… Well, I should have stayed clear of Liberator, that’s all.” 

He took a breath and grinned. “But I didn’t, did I? Oh well, it’s only money. And I ought to be able to negotiate a discount, I suppose. I’ll hire them, but only if you don’t expect me to wait chastely until then. You can consider your position just as well while in bed with me. Better, in fact. That way you’ll know what you’re thinking about giving up.”

Avon hadn’t really thought that he could convincingly insist on abstinence. There would have been no logic to it. “I assumed as much.”

“Then let’s do it now,” Tarrant said.

“What about the journalists?” Avon countered. They had been hammering and ringing the doorbell on and off since he woke. 

“We can keep the front door shut.” Tarrant said. “Come on, Avon. You can’t promise me this then not deliver.”

No, he couldn’t. Avon pushed aside the remains of his breakfast. “Bed, then.” Just gymnastics, after all.


	10. Happy Birthday

“Go away, Tarrant,”

The hands smoothing across his chest didn’t stop. “Come on, wake up. Happy birthday.”

“I don’t do birthdays. How did you even know?”

“From your passport. Wake up!” The hands moved downwards and Avon made a vague attempt to bat them away.

He squeezed an eye open. The room was dark. “It’s not even morning. Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t.” Tarrant bit his ear gently. “Taxi’s booked. We’ve just got time for sex and a shower before it gets here.”

Avon reached out for his watch. “It’s 3.30am. I don’t do anything at this sort of time.”

“I’ll do it then.” Tarrant started to lick his way down Avon’s body. Avon sighed and let him. There were worse ways to wake up, even at this hour.

“Where do you think you’re dragging me off to then?” Post shower and coffee Avon was feeling a little more human.

“Estia.”

That seemed a bit random; a city about three hours flight away and across six borders. “Why?”

“For your birthday present.” Tarrant said happily.

Avon’s brain finally caught up. “The Blackbirds?”

“Yep.”

For his birthday. How very Tarrant. “And they won’t know who’s booked them?” A condition he’d insisted on the first time he’d got Tarrant in a position to do what he was told.

“That’s why we’re going to Estia. They’ve got a very private private box. Though God knows why you’re even more paranoid than the average punter.”

The box had one way glass and peepholes. It also had champagne and a variety of other beverages, some rather nice looking canapes and sweets and a large selection of drugs, legal and otherwise. Avon declined Tarrant’s suggestions of champagne , cocaine or to share the couch with him and chose an armchair instead. He did try one or two of the sweets. It was, after all, his birthday.

Avon had seen plenty of porn over the years. He'd always found that it took a slight effort of will to put it to its intended purpose, so he hadn't expected his reaction to the Blackbirds to be a problem. At first he just watched the trapeze work, assessing. Tarrant had been right- this was skilled stuff. He and Blake had had a few moves that these youngsters didn't, but the five Blackbirds had a strength and speed that Avon knew he couldn't match. 

They were currently crossing in turn from the main board to the catcher using a variety of standard tricks, competently done. The catcher then neatly stripped each flyer of his leggings as the man dropped naked to the net and joined in with some fairly indecent tumbling on the floor. Watching the hands and mouths at work Avon felt arousal stir. 

"Getting in the mood," Tarrant said from behind Avon. "Unlike most porn actors we can't rely on drugs, not when on the rig. It's bloody difficult to get an erection and keep it for the whole show. A lot of the stuff you see is designed as much to keep the boys hard as it is entertainment." 

He paused. "Sorry . Do you want me to just shut up and let you watch?" 

"No, " Avon said, slightly desperately. "Keep talking. I'm interested." 

Conversation about the technicalities of the act kept Avon's discomfort from becoming intolerable, even though the act became progressively more obscene. He breathed a sigh of surprise and relief when the performers went off. 

"Is that it? "

“Half time interval,” Tarrant said. “Here are the dancers. They usually get a couple of local acts. It's an hour to wait, so you might as well have a drink.” He was helping himself to one as he spoke. Avon wondered if the act had affected him; Tarrant seemed edgier than usual. 

“Why on earth a whole hour? Doesn't your audience get impatient?” 

“Our audience is usually in a post orgasmic stupor by now. There's not much point in performing to that.”

“Ah,” Avon said. “In that case an hour doesn't seem long enough.” 

Tarrant picked up a bottle of pills, tossed it to him. “One of these and an hour is usually sufficient.” He laughed at Avon’s expression. “I worked on getting this perfect for five years, Avon. By the end I wasn’t missing a trick.”

Avon turned the bottle round, reading the one word label. He didn’t recognise it. “Are your punters meant to work this out for themselves?”

“There’s usually quite a bit of help. I told the promoter that we were repeat customers; just set it up, perform and leave.”

“No interactive components, then?” Avon saw no need to watch the dancers, so he turned to watch Tarrant instead. 

A flicker of what might have been annoyance went over Tarrant’s face. “Anything any one of them can show you up there I probably invented. But if you insist…”

Avon smiled. Catching Tarrant at a disadvantage was currently one of his favourite amusements. “I shall have to see how I feel by then. What are the performers doing for an hour, anyway?”

“Cooling off. Second half is pretty hardcore. If they don’t cool off now they won’t make it through to the finale.”

Avon had a brief vision of five men wandering around naked waiting for their erections to subside. “Cold showers?”

“Computer games, mainly. We ran a couple of leagues to keep it interesting. I miss those.” Tarrant sounded almost plaintive. “Liberator’s lot don’t take gaming seriously.”

“Do you miss the performances?” Avon asked without thinking first. He and Tarrant spent what seemed to him to be an inordinate amount of time screwing but he’d firmly declined Tarrant’s suggestions about some of the more outlandish possibilities and he had not yet been persuaded to try anything more than a little light fellatio on his rig. The Blackbirds seemed quite definitely into bondage and he wondered if that reflected Tarrant’s preferences and if so which way. 

“Not in the slightest,” Tarrant told him. “Five years of following the script, even if I wrote it? Coming at exactly the right time on the right person? I got so bored of the same cocks and the same tongues shoved in the same places and all of it not to please each other but only to get it looking right.” He looked at Avon’s face. “Don’t get me wrong. It was just work, that’s all. But we didn’t do more than a couple of performances a month, even for that sort of money. I don’t think anyone could.” 

Avon wondered what on earth had possessed him to ask such a question. Now he had to think of something to say. 

“I’m going to go for a walk.” He picked up the hooded cloak that he’d arrived in. “To find a decent coffee. I’ll be back before the hour is up.”

There was a pause, then Tarrant said, “Fine. You do that. I’m sure I can find something in here to pass the time.”

Avon found a coffee and watched the city go by. So far coming here had seemed like a waste of effort. Still, there might be something in the second half. Tarrant seemed on edge. Maybe it was the money. Avon briefly considered making an effort to seem like he was enjoying it a bit more, but there wasn’t much point in buttering up Tarrant at this stage. All this would be over by the end of the day. His birthday.

He felt a flutter of mixed feelings about that. Being with Tarrant for the last few weeks hadn’t turned out as much of an ordeal as he’d imagined. He would have to try to settle matters smoothly enough so his catcher remained with Liberator. They couldn’t afford to lose the man’s talent, nor his loan. 

Avon strode back into the venue, hood over his face, five minutes after the hour was up. He could hear the music and as he entered the arena he could see the naked men back on the rig. 

He walked over to the box and opened the door.

Tarrant was slumped over the couch. Even from a first glance Avon could tell he was unconscious. The glass he’d poured was sitting by the window, untouched. 

Avon knelt down and sniffed at Tarrant’s breath. No alcohol, He twisted on one foot, looking around the box. The bottles of drugs were knocked to the floor, many of them had come open. Avon had absolutely no idea what they were or which had been taken.

“Tarrant!” He shook the man’s shoulder hard, slapped him across the face. “Tarrant! Del! Wake up!” No response. 

Christ. Avon stepped out of the box, shouted up at the rig. “Medical emergency here!”

Bodies tumbled down, rolled out of the net. The tallest guy was the first to arrive. 

“What’s he taken?”

“I don’t know.” Avon waved at the mess of tablets. “How could I know?”

The man shouldered past him, rolled Tarrant onto his side. “He’s taken Lephyric.”

Avon had never heard of it. “How do you know?” 

“Because that’s what he always takes.” He looked at Avon. “Didn’t you know? Never mind, not important. Though I suppose that means you don’t know if he’s still taking it regularly then.”

“As far as I know,” Avon said stiffly, “he doesn’t take any drugs at all.”

“Then he’s probably ODed on his old dose. That’s all that would have been in here anyway, unless he brought his own.”

“He needs a hospital,” Avon said.

“No he doesn’t.” The guy had been taking Tarrant’s pulse as he talked. “If he goes to a hospital here with this in his system he’ll end up in jail for a long time.” He called back to the others crowded at the door. “Jackdaw’s screwed up again. We’ll take him through to the back.”

Avon was swept to one side as they carried Tarrant’s limp body out. He found the tall man again among the naked bodies. “What is this stuff? What does it do?”

“It’s a kind of tranquilliser. For anxiety.” The man looked down at him. “He’ll probably be OK.”

“Why would he need a tranquilliser?” Avon was baffled, remembering Tarrant jumping from the bar without a net. “He’s not nervous.”

“It’s complicated.” They had reached the stage door that Tarrant had just been carried through. “Is he your partner?”

“Yes,” Avon said automatically then realised that the man probably wasn’t talking about trapeze. Still, the answer would stand for the moment. 

“Then you’d better come in, I suppose.” 

Avon was allowed to stand by the couch as a couple of the performers ran through what looked like a familiar process of getting Tarrant undressed and monitoring his pulse and breathing. He was so intent on the state of his catcher that he barely noticed the conversation going on behind him. 

“Jackdaw, yes. In the box. And an older man with him.”

Something indecipherable.

“Fuck knows. The guy wasn’t even there when he OD’d.”

“Let me see.” An older man pushed his way though and stood beside Avon, looking down at Tarrant.

“This is Jackdaw?”

“Yes,” a couple of people confirmed.

“But this is Del Tarrant. He’s catcher for Liberator. And his partner’s…”

“Kerr Avon,” Avon finished for him. “Hello Blake. I’ve gone to quite a lot of trouble to arrange this meeting, but I’m afraid it isn’t going quite to plan.”


	11. Choices

“How did you find me?”

Avon dug the folded print out of his back pocket and handed it to Blake. His eyes went back to Tarrant’s slow breathing. 

“It was staring me in the face,” he said, “but I didn’t see it until Tarrant pointed out how boring it was. Just like Liberator’s. We all told you that no-one liked that font but you were so determined that you must be right that you used it twice.”

“That’s not proof of anything,” Blake said. “You must have had more than that.”

“Not really. Everything else was circumstantial. If you were alive you had to be in hiding, something the Blackbirds were expert at, and they could have picked you up anywhere. Rook told Tarrant they’d got a new coach and manager, not leader, suggesting someone not young or pretty enough to join in. It wasn’t much to go on. I fully expected to get here and find a complete stranger who just happened to share your execrable taste in fonts.” 

“So did he know you were coming to find me?” Blake rested a hand on Tarrant’s arm. Avon resisted the urge to push it off. 

“No.” He grimaced. “He just turned up after Kamir, Blake. How could I be sure who he reported to?”

“How did you get him to pay for this, then? Surely you didn’t convince him you had a taste for expensive trapeze porn?

“It doesn’t matter,” Avon said. “You’re here.” 

“I think it matters,” Blake said. “They told me about Jackdaw when I took over, as a kind of a cautionary tale- what burn-out’s like. Did he tell you how he left?”

“He said he got tired of it.” Avon said, cautiously.

“He wouldn’t quit. He needed more and more of the drug to get out there and perform but he wouldn’t quit. When the fourth overdose nearly killed him the boys bribed the hospital to keep quiet, put another thirty grand in his bank account and just left him behind. They changed the safe houses and all the accounts and refused to take his calls. In the end he got the message and stayed away, and it doubtless saved his life. At least that’s what they told me.” 

Blake looked away from Tarrant, at Avon. “So now Jackdaw’s back here and overdosed again. Don’t you think how you got him here matters?”

Of all the things Avon had expected to talk to - argue with - Blake about if he ever found him Tarrant hadn't been on the list. 

"I needed to find you," he said. 

"Enough to wreck a life over?" Blake made it seem like a legitimate question. 

"I used what was to hand," Avon said bitterly. "I learned that from you." 

"I was trying to change the world," Blake said. "You were just curious about what had become of me." 

"That's not true," Avon's voice had gone harsh. "Liberator needs you."

Blake shrugged. "Nothing I can do about that. I can't go back. I'd be assassinated within days. You seem to have been doing fine without me, anyway. The new line - up's getting very good reviews. Of course if you've just manipulated your catcher into killing himself you'll have a bit of a problem."

Avon looked back automatically at Tarrant. Was his breathing weaker? “This is stupid. I’m getting him a doctor.” 

“There’s one on her way. The promoter always had a standby in case of accidents.”

The doctor asked terse, minimalist questions via the promoter- what had Tarrant taken, how much, how long ago, had he also been drinking or taking anything else? She didn't enquire as to how he'd got the drug or why he'd taken it. Tarrant was hooked up to a portable monitor and a drip and Avon was informed that she'd be back in two hours and given a number to call if the readings on the monitor dropped below a certain level.

Avon could hear the noise of the rig being dismantled in the main arena, Blake’s voice calling instructions. He wondered if Blake would come back to talk to him or just disappear again. Every few minutes one of the older Blackbirds would come by to check up on Tarrant. Avon got the distinct impression that it was rather more than just concern at the prospect of a punter dying on set. They didn’t say anything to him, nor him to them.

Tarrant woke up after anther ninety minutes or so, weak and complaining of dizziness but apparently compos mentis. When Avon tried to help him prop himself up the monitor readings shot down drastically so he insisted that Tarrant lie flat. 

“Were you trying to kill yourself?” he demanded.

“No.”

“So why were you stupid enough to take that stuff?” The anger in Avon’s voice was genuine.

Tarrant turned his head away. “Usual reason,” he said tiredly. “To get through the performance.”

“You weren’t performing.” Avon snarled.

Tarrant gave a very small sigh and closed his eyes again. 

“I won’t have a junkie on my rig.” Avon was getting angrier. 

“No.” Tarrant kept his eyes closed. “If it helps any, I never did. Not on Liberator”

“Addicts lie,” Avon told him. “I’ve been in prison. I know.”

Tarrant dragged his lids open. “I’ve never lied to you. Not once.”

“You told me you just got tired of this.”

“And I did, more tired than you can possibly imagine. But the Blackbirds were mine; I didn’t know how to give them up. Afterwards I didn’t need the drug. I had Liberator and you. At least that’s what I thought.”

He closed his eyes again. For a few minutes Avon thought that he’d gone back to sleep but eventually he spoke again, his voice slow and dragging.

“There was a problem on the rig. He came out to fix it. In a mask, but that didn’t matter. I’ve watched the vids of you two so many times.”

Another long pause. “I didn’t know how to face you after that. The Lephyric was there. I thought it might help. I guess I took too much. I wasn’t thinking very straight.”

He tried to focus on Avon for the first time but his blue eyes were still hazy. “You could have told me. I’d have helped you find him. Was it just more entertaining this way?” 

“I couldn’t trust you,” Avon said, his voice harsh. “You appeared out of nowhere after Kamir, manoeuvred yourself into Liberator and promptly tried to seduce me. How could I possibly trust you with Blake’s whereabouts? If I’d been wrong about you he could have been murdered.”

“So you used me instead.” Tarrant said flatly.

“Yes.” There seemed little point in lying about it at this stage.

“For my body, my money and my access to the Blackbirds. That’s a pretty comprehensive betrayal.” Tarrant’s voice seemed to be strengthening. 

“I didn’t need your body,” Avon said. “That just came as part of the deal.”

“Why don’t you go and find another coffee,” Tarrant suggested “I don’t think I want you near me for a while. It’s not helping the nausea any.”

“Someone needs to keep an eye on you,” Avon pointed out.

“Then find someone else to do it.” 

Avon found the tall Blackbird and asked him to take over. The guy’s expression made it quite clear what he thought of Avon’s neglect but he agreed to sit with Tarrant until the doctor returned. 

Avon went off to find Blake packing the rig away and shout at him.

“You have to come back! You can’t stay out here devising entertainment for rich perverts for the rest of your life. What about the cause? “

“That’s why I’m staying,” Blake said calmly. “The Blackbirds are the perfect vehicle for moving around and recruiting. Much better than Liberator was.” 

“And have you told these boys they are part of a terrorist organisation? Like you didn’t tell us?”

He expected Blake to protest but the man just nodded. “I wouldn’t make that mistake again. The stuff they see- well, they knew all about corruption. When we talked it over one of them left, but the others are part of it.”

“If you’d told us,” Avon insisted, “we could have been part of it too.”

“Maybe,” Blake said. “Would you have come to Kamir if you’d known?”

“If I’d known,” Avon said coldly, “I’d have devised you a plan that didn’t end in disaster. Is Jenna dead?”

“Yes,” Blake said. “I’m sorry.” 

“So am I.” 

They stood in silence for a moment, before Blake spoke again. “If you really mean it… you could come with me.” 

Avon felt oddly numb. “And what about Liberator?” he said, mainly to buy time.

“There are four of them. They could find another flyer. I could use you here, for both sets of Blackbirds’ activities.” Blake flashed a warm smile at him. “Rather to my surprise, I have missed having you around, Avon.”

“Give me half an hour to think about it,” Avon said, though he was already certain what he’d say.

He wandered around, watching the men finish the packing. They didn’t seem very keen on him but when had that mattered? He’d made a career of being indispensible, not nice. The Blackbirds had money; he could have another go at getting rich while Blake ran round trying to make the world a better place. It wasn’t as if Liberator would ever make his fortune.

The half hour was nearly up. Avon made his way over to Blake. 

“Well?” Blake asked.

“I think…” he started and two muffled shots rang out. “Fuck!”

“That was in the back,” Blake said. “There’s a concealed exit this way.” He started to run.

“Hang on,” Avon grabbed his sleeve. “Tarrant’s back there.”

Blake shook his head. “You heard the shots. I’m sorry. We need to get out of here.”

Avon didn’t want to get shot down pointlessly over a dead body, even Tarrant’s. He had started off after Blake, still clinging to his sleeve, when a loud voice hailed them.

“Kerr Avon!”

He knew that voice. “Zella agent” he yelled to Blake.

“Hand over Blake or your partner dies just as slowly and painfully as Emil did.”

Avon paused for a moment in agonising indecision, then let go of Blake’s shirt and pushed him away. “Go!”

He turned and walked slowly towards the door to the back room. When he glanced around Blake and the other Blackbirds had already disappeared.

There were still only the two of them but the woman had a gun this time. The two shots had been fired at the doctor and the tall Blackbird. Neither of them looked to have survived. The man had dragged Tarrant off the bed, wires and drip entangled, and had a knife to his throat. The gun was now pointed at Avon.

“Blake wasn’t here,” Avon told the woman. “It was another wild goose chase. You could at least kill us both quickly. It won’t make any difference to you.” 

“If you hadn’t killed my people” she told him, “I would have let you go. You’d have led us to him eventually. But vengeance means a lot to the souls of the dead. They will rest a little easier when we are done.”

“Peasant superstition,” Avon said. “Dead is merely the opposite of alive, nothing else.” He glanced at Tarrant, who looked white as a ghost and about to throw up. “Your people were stupid and it got them killed. I suggest that you choose the next ones better.”

The gun twitched and for a second Avon thought he’d pushed her too far. His heart was thumping as her finger slowly moved away from the trigger. 

“First you beg for an easy end,” she said, scathingly, “and now you try to trick me into it. You are a coward, Kerr Avon. You fear pain.”

Avon certainly feared pain, but not nearly as much as he feared that bullet and the end of all his options. 

“If you let him live, I’ll find Blake for you. I promise.”

“No, you won’t.” she said. “Roj Blake is your friend.”

“Not that sort of friend.” He gave Tarrant what was supposed to look like a desperately devoted look. He wasn’t quite sure how and he feared that he ended up just looking rather idiotic but he supposed that would do. “Del’s the only one that matters to me. I’ll do anything, I promise.”

At that point Tarrant threw up. Avon rather hoped it was the lingering effects of the drug and not his protestations of devotion that had caused it. It constituted a useful further delay in proceedings anyway as the guy with the knife, now with sick over his sleeves, felt the need to swear at great length and kick Tarrant viciously a few times. The woman with the gun wasn’t distracted, unfortunately, so all Avon could do was wait for things to settle down again. 

Five minutes he reckoned he’d bought so far. That wasn’t bad. Of course no amount of time would do any good if Blake and his lads were still running away. Avon could only hope that the noble profession of resistance fighters involved some skills in actual fighting and that he and Tarrant constituted a sufficient Cause for Blake to turn round and come back again.

“Liar,” Tarrant croaked at him. Avon stared at him. This wasn’t the time…

Or maybe it was. “It was always you, Del,” he told Tarrant. “I may have lied about some things but it didn’t change my feelings.” Was that the sort of thing people said?

Tarrant coughed up some nasty looking yellow stuff. “Liar,” he said again. “I was just convenient. Not even that. Unwanted. Did you ever once touch me without thinking of him?” 

“Of Blake?” Avon wasn’t sure where Tarrant was going with this. He has a horrible feeling that the man might not be playing for their audience at all. “Why would I think of Blake during sex, for God’s sake? I can’t think of anything more offputting!” 

“You’re in love with him,” Tarrant said. “You always have been. And when you find him you’ll walk away as if I had never existed.”

“I won’t,” Avon said, but even to himself it sounded hollow. “I came back for you, didn’t I?”

“Yes you did,” Tarrant said. “I don’t have the faintest idea why.”

Avon nearly said “Because I love you,” but he didn’t want the last words he might ever say to be ludicrous. “Because you’re my catcher.”

“Enough!” the woman said. “Damage his hand.”

“No!” Avon said, stepping forward in protest. The gun was raised in warning. The man seized Tarrant’s right hand, the knife flashed and Tarrant kicked him in the face. There was a huge explosion which wasn’t Avon being shot so he took the opportunity to throw himself forward and try to take the gun. The woman hung onto it for grim death until she was hit from behind by Blake and crumpled to the floor.

“That was almost too late,” Avon told Blake. “Tarrant could have been…” He looked across at his catcher, sitting on the floor. The knife stuck out of his hand. “Tarrant!” 

Tarrant raised his hand. “Bit late,” he said. The point of the knife jutted out from his palm. Avon stared for a minute then dropped to catch him as he crumpled. 

 

They walked out of the hospital together, Tarrant’s hand still swathed in bandages. It was going to take at least a couple of months before Tarrant could find out if his hand would heal well enough for any sort of trapeze.

“You might as well go now,” he told Avon. “I’m not going to be a particularly good tempered invalid. The others will look after me.”

“I’m not going,” Avon said.

Tarrant frowned at him . “Why not?”

“Because I’ve discovered that I really don’t like having guns pointed at me. I suspect it would happen rather too often around Blake.”

Tarrant sighed. “I don’t know if I can ever be your catcher any more.”

“Are you still going to be any good in bed?” Avon asked.

Tarrant’s eyes flickered up to his. “I thought you didn’t need my body.”

“I don’t need it,” Avon said. “But I’ve got used to having it around.”

Tarrant walked for a few minutes without speaking. Then “I don’t think I can forgive you yet.”

The “yet” sounded promising. “I don’t feel any particular need to be forgiven.” Avon said airily. “That needn’t stop you coming home with me.” 

“You still love Blake.”

“I don’t love anyone,” Avon insisted. “I’m moderately pleased that he’s still alive. The same goes, I suppose, for you.”

Tarrant grinned, the first real smile since the knife had pierced his palm. “I’m a bit worried that you’re actually going to short circuit and go into meltdown if I push you any further about your obviously non-existent feelings about either of us. OK, I’ll come home with you for now and we’ll see how it goes.” 

He reached out with his good hand and wrapped his fingers around Avon’s. Avon let them stay there for a good ten seconds before he pulled away. “There’s no need to be ridiculous in public,”

“Of course not.” Tarrant’s step had got lighter and faster. “But I warn you we’re going to be in private soon enough and then I intend to be as ridiculous as I possibly can.” 

Avon sighed theatrically, but after a couple of minutes he realised that his stride had speeded up too. Three hours to fly home and another hour to get across the city to his flat. He briefly wondered where Blake was by now but he’d told himself he wasn’t going to do that any more. Out there somewhere, still breathing and still trying to save the world. That would have to do. Avon was going back to Liberator, and home.


End file.
